WBIIiiilfiPIHII^ 


LIFE,  HERE  AND  THERE :  '^^^ 


OR 


;ketches  of  society  and  adventure 


AT 


FAR-APAET  TIMES  AND  PLACES 


BY 


N.    P.    WILLIS. 


NEW  ORLEANS: 
BURNETT  &£  BOSTWICK. 
1854. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

BAKER    AND    SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southera 

District  of  New  York. 


C.    W.     B  ENEDI  CT, 

S  t  e  r  e  0  t  y  p  e  Ty 

UOl  William  st.,  N.  Y. 


PREFACE. 

So  imperceptibly  is  one  stage  of  life  shaded  into  the  next — 
so  gradual  and  easy  are  the  transitions,  through  the  changes 
worked  by  experience  and  observation — that  we  refer  back  to 
what  we  "  always  said,"  and  "  always  thought,"  as  if  we  had 
always  looked  through  the  same  eyes  and  judged  by  the  same 
standards.  Yet,  if  we  could  recal  the  Past,  with  the  backward- 
waving  wand  of  the  magician,  and  could  see,  together,  the  two 
pictures — ^life  as  it  seemed  then,  and  life  as  it  soems  now — how 
startling,  to  any  mind,  would  be  the  comparison !  An  author 
who  has  chronicled  his  impressions,  and  preserved  pictures  of 
society,  as  he  saw  it  at  earlier  and  later  stages  of  observation, 
has  almost  this  magical  privilege.  He  can  look  again  at  the 
scenes  which  he  has  copied  and  treasured  up,  and  judge,  as  few 
others  can,  with  what  different  eyes  men  look  around  them  at  far- 
apart  times  and  places. 

In  the  following  sketches,  the  writer  records  much  in  which  he 
had  a  personal  share,  though  the  narratives,  even  when  told  in 


IV 


PREFACE. 


the  first  person,  are,  by  no  means,  intended  to  be  strictly  auto- 
biographic. The  characters  are  all  drawn  from  life,  however, 
and  several  of  them  are  portraits,  done  with  studied  faithfulness^ 
of  celebrated  men  and  women  whom  he  has  had  the  opportunity 
to  know ;  while  the  scenes  of  the  diflferent  stories  are  minutely 
true  to  the  manners  of  the  countries,  and  the  style  of  the  society, 
in  which  they  are  laid.  If  the  two  parts  of  the  book  do  not  seem 
to  the  reader  to  be  written  by  the  same  pen,  it  but  strengthens 
the  remark  with  which  this  preface  commences.  But  if,  from 
these  contrasted  pictures,  any  knowledge  can  be  drawn,  as  to  the 
tendencies  of  a  varied  life,  and  as  to  the  comparative  value  of  the 
different  spheres  and  relations  of  society,  here  and  abroad,  he 
will  not  feel  that  even  so  sketchy  a  work  is  without  its  uses. 


CONTENTS. 


EDITH  LINDSEY. 

A  Snow  Storm— Desperate  Work— First  Introduction— Love  Commencing— Intel, 
lectual  Communion— Epicurism  of  Reading— Old  Authors— Vision  Explained— 
Too  Fine  for  Use— Religion  in  Illness — Anatomy  of  Love— Minute  Philosophies 
—Easy  Luxuries— The  Culture  of  Love— Albina  McLush— Nature's  Parallels- 
Surprise  at  Health— To  Realize  Death— The  Feelings  of  the  Sick— Illness, 
Poetry  and  Love— Verses  in  Absence— A  Digression— A  Charming  Town— After 
Long  Partings— For  whom  "Write  We  ?— Time  and  Place  of  Happiness— Sketch 
of  a  Chum— A  Venture  for  a  Friend— Souls  in  the  Wrong  Bodies— Naming 
Children— Boy  Poems— June  in  America— Scenery  versus  Society— Travel  in 
Canal  Boats— Unwritten  Music— Trenton  Falls— Job  on  Horseback— Crack  in 
the  Earth— Rapids  at  Trenton— A  Surprise— Meeting  Again— End  of  a  First 
Love 1 

SCENES  OF  FEAR. 

The  Disturbed  Vigil— Aptness  for  Adventure— A  Western  Student— Vigil  with  a 
Madman— Hot  Coals  on  a  Lunatic— Literal  Lunacy— American  Sleighing— Male 
Friendships— Madness  in  a  Bridegroom— The  Bridal— Lunacy  Returned— Chase 
of  a  Madman— Death  on  the  Bridal  Night 95 

INCIDENTS  ON  THE  HUDSON 

Parisian-ism  in  America— Indians  and  Westerners— Plunge  for  a  Lady— Cauters- 
kill  Falls— Narrow  Escape , ,,..,....  119 


▼1 


CONTENTS. 


Pass 
PEDLAR  KARL. 

Cyphenng  by  Trees— Possible  Single-Blessedness— Latitudes   of  Belles— Lame 
Women— Five  Minutes  too  soon— Helping  Lovers— An  Old  Maid  Aunt— Tender 
Humbug— The  Elopement— Getting  Late— Nearly  Done 129 

NIAGARA— LAKE  ONTARIO— THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

Niagara— Miss  E.  M Analysis  of  Grandeur— The  Wear  of  Niagara— Under    . 

the  Cascade— -A  Risk— Niagara  Ferry— A  Soul  Misplaced— Partiality  for  Water 
—An  Elopement— Indian  Elopement— Thousand  Isles— Sequel  to  a  Love 152 

THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT. 

4  Character— New  Haven— A  Student  from  the  Woods— Indian  Girl  at  School- 
Sudden  Recognition— Red-Skin  in  Society — Effects  of  Indian  Jealousy— Queer 
Place  for  a  Keepsake— Singular  Compulsion— What  Autumn  is  like— Sketch  of 
an  Adventurer 177 

F.  SMITH. 

Wonders  of  Nahant— Talk  by  Sea— A  Trot  on  the  Beach— Stuff  for  Friendships- 
Model  Reception  of  an  Insult— Excuses  for  Inconstancy— Blanche  Carroll— Im- 
perious Belle— A  Belle's  Whim— A  Lady-Whip— A  Mystery— Quiz  of  an  Ac- 
quaintance   200 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  HEART-BOOK  OF  ERNEST  CLAY. 

An  Elopement— Love,  or  Passion  ?— Portrait  worth  your  Study— Pay  for  Genius- 
Envy  the  Twentieth— Analysis  of  Passion— Poverty,  as  Fashion  sees  it— Cost,  of 
Fashion  with  a  Wife— Where  Fame  is  Felt— Love  in  a  Crowd— A  Loved  Woman 
Eclipsed— Close  Combat  of  Hearts— A  Poet's  Waking— A  Love-Letter  for  a  Vent 
—Letter  to  an  Old  Love— A  Women  about  awaking— Pivot  of  a  Fate— Past  Hope 
Questioning  Fruition— Beauty  Born  Again— The  Old  Love  met  Again— The  Poet 
Crowned— Poets  as  Lovers— Hearts  and  Lives  in  Danger— Desperate  Venture 

—A  Trying  Interview— Ambition  in  a  Woman— A  Lover  within  Call— Material 
of  a  Friendship— A  Lady's  Team— Food  for  Perversion— Love  in  Death— High 
Life  Trammels— Marriage  on  a  Death-Bed— An  Electric  Meeting— Bridge  of 
Mo«Qlight— A  Clairvoyant  Friend— First  Love  at  Last 226 


CONTENTS.  vu 


Pagv 

BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST. 

Portrait  Painter's  Secret— Object  of  a  Visit— A  Plain  Man's  Beauty— One  "Way  to 
Love— Use  of  a  Portrait- A  Lover  Undeceived 301 


MISS  JONES'S  SON. 

4  Dandy's  Letter— Visit  to  a  Mother's  Sweetheart— An  Unrecognized  Lion- 
Writes  himself  a  Note— Opens  the  Campaign— Wit  Below  Stairs— At  Home  at 
Last ; 314 

LADY  RACHEL. 

Siege  laid  to  an  aversion— Regret  at  Success— An  Apparition— Love  at  a  Last 
Moment 330 

WiGVVAM  versus  ALMACK'S. 

Indian  and  his  Poney — Landlord's  Daughter — The  Heroine's  Home — An  Indian 
Lover — Alniack's — Miss  Trevanion — English  Pride,  American  Vanity— First 
Step  in  Fashion— Philosophy  of  Luxury— Selfishness  of  Wealth— Heroine  in  the 
Saddle— High-Life  Courting-  A  Warning-  A  Prairie  Tale— A  Discovery— An 
Indian  Hint— Fashion  in  a  Wigwam— A  Chiefs  Home 340 


EARLIER    DAYS. 


EDITH  LINSEY. 

PART  I. 

FROST    AND    FLIRTATION. 

^  Oh  yes — for  you're  in  love  with  me  ! 

(I'm  very  glad  of  it,  I'm  sure ;) 
But  then  you  are  not  rich,  you  see, 

And  I you  know  Pm  very  poor ! 

'Tis  true  that  I  can  drive  a  tandem — 

'Tis  true  that  I  can  turn  a  sonnet— 
'Tis  true  I  leave  the  law  at  random, 

When  I  should  study — plague  upon  it ! 
But  this  is  not — excuse  me  ! — money ! 

(A  thing  they  give  for  house  and  land ;) 
And  we  must  eat  in  matrimony — 
And  love  is  neither  bread  nor  honey — 

And  so        you  understand  ?" 

"  Thou  art  spotless  as  the  snow,  lady  mine,  lady  mine ! 
Thou  art  spotless  as  the  snow,  lady  mine  ! 
But  the  noon  will  have  its  ray, 
And  snow-wreaths  melt  away — 
And  hearts — why  should  not  they  ? — 
Why  not  thine  ?" 

It  began  to  snow.     The  air  softened  ;  the  pattering  of  the 

horse's  hoofs  was  muffled  with  the  impeded  vibration  ;  the  sleigh 

glided  on  with  a  duller  sound ;  the  large  loose  flakes  fell  soft  and 

fast ;  and  the  low  and  just  audible  murmur,  like  the  tread  of  a 
1 


2       '  A  SNOW-STORM. 

fairy  host,  melted  on  the  ear  with  a  drowsy  influence,  as  if  it  were 
a  descent  of  palpable  sleep  upon  the  earth.  You  may  talk  of  fall- 
ing water — of  the  running  of  a  brook — of  the  humming  song  of 
an  old  crone  on  a  sick  vigil — or  of  the  levi  sumrro  of  the  bees  of 
Hybla — but  there  is  nothing  like  the  falling  3^  che  snow,  for  soft 
and  soothing  music.  You  hear  it,  or  not,  as  you  will,  but  it  melts 
into  your  soul  unaware.  If  you  have  ever  a  heartache,  or  feel  the 
need  of  "  poppy  or  mandragora,"  or,  like  myself,  grow  sometimes 
a-weary  of  the  stale  repetitions  of  this  unvaried  world,  seek  me 
out  in  Massachusetts,  when  the  wind  softens  and  veers  south, 
after  a  frost — say  in  January.  There  shall  have  been  a  long-ly- 
ing snow  on  the  ground,  well-trodden.  The  road  shall  be  as 
smooth  as  the  paths  to  our  first  sins — of  a  seeming  perpetual  de- 
clivity, as  it  were — and  never  a  jot  or  jar  between  us  and  the 
edge  of  the  horizon ;  but  all  onward  and  down  apparently,  with  an 
insensible  ease.  You  sit  beside  me  in  m.y  spring-sleigh,  hung 
with  the  lightness  of  a  cob-web  cradle  for  a  fairy's  child  in  the 
trees.  Our  horse  is,  in  the  harness,  of  a  swift  and  even  pace,  and 
around  his  neck  is  a  string  of  fine  small  bells,  that  ring  to  hi^ 
measured  step  in  a  kind  of  muffled  music,  softer  and  softer  as  the 
snow-flakes  thicken  in  the  air.  Your  seat  is  of  the  shape  of  the 
fautcuil  in  your  library,  cushioned  and  deep,  and  with  a  back- 
ward and  gentle  slope,  and  you  are  enveloped  to  the  eyelids  iu 
waiin  furs.  You  settle  down,  with  every  muscle  in  repose,  the 
visor  of  your  ermine  cap  just  shedding  the  snow  from  your  fore- 
head, and,  with  a  word,  the  groom  stands  back,  and  the  horse 
speeds  on,  steady,  but  beautifully  fast.  The  bells,  which  you 
hear  loudly  at  first,  begin  to  deaden,  and  the  low  hum  of  the 
alighting  flakes  steals  gradually  on  your  ear  ;  and  soon  the  hoof- 
Btrokes  are  as  silent  as  if  the  steed  were  shod  with  wool,  and  away 


EARLIER  DAYS.  3 

you  jQiee  tlirougli  the  white  air,  like  birds  asleep  upon  the  wing 
diving  through  the  feathery  fleeces  of  the  noon.  Your  eyelids 
fall — forgetfulness  steals  upon  the  senses — a  delicious  torpor  takes 
possession  of  the  uneasy  blood — and  brain  and  thought  yield  to 
an  intoxicating  and  trance-like  slumber.  It  were  perhaps  too 
much  to  ask  that  any  human  bosom  may  go  scathless  to  the  grave  ; 
but,  in  my  own  unworthy  petitions,  I  usually  supplicate  that  my 
heart  may  be  broken  about  Christmas.  I  know  an  anodyne  o' 
that  season. 

Fred  Fleming  and  I  occupied  one  of  the  seven  long  seats  in  a 
stage-sleigh,  flying  at  this  time  twelve  miles  in  the  hour,  (yet  not 
fast  enough  for  our  impatience),  westward  from  the  university 
gates.  The  sleighing  had  been  perfect  for  a  week,  and  the  cold 
keen  air  had  softened  for  the  first  time  that  morning,  and  assumed 
the  warm  and  woolly  complexion  that  foretokened  snow.  Though 
not  very  cheerful  in  its  aspect,  this  is  an  atmosphere  particularly 
pleasant  to  breathe ;  and  Fred,  who  was  making  his  .first  move 
after  a  six  weeks'  fever,  sat  with  the  furs  away  from  his  mouth, 
nostrils  expanded,  lips  parted,  and  the  countenance  altogether  of 
a  man  in  a  high  state  of  physical  enjoyment.  I  had  nursed  him 
through  his  illness,  by-the-way,  in  my  own  rooms,  and  hence  our 
position  as  fellow-travellers.  A  pressing  invitation  from  his 
father  to  come  home  with  him  to  Skaneateles,  for  the  holydays, 
had  diverted  me  from  my  usual  winter  journey  to  the  North  ;  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  going  upon  a  long  visit  to  a 
strange  roof  My  imagination  had  never  more  business  upon  its 
hands. 

Fred  had  described  to  me,  over  and  over  again,  every  person  I 
was  to  meet — brothers,  sisters,  aunts,  cousins,  and  friends — a 
household  of  thirty  people,  guests  included ;  but  there  was  one 


4  WHAT  IS  SHE  LIKE? 

person  among  them  of  whom  his  descriptions,  amplified  as  the^ 
were,  were  very  unsatisfactory. 

"  Is  she  so  very  plain  ?"  I  asked,  for  the  twentieth  time. 

"  Abominably !" 

"  And  immense  black  eyes  .^' 

"  Saucers  !" 

"  And  large  mouth  .?" 

"Huge!" 

"  And  very  dark  .^" 

"  Like  a  squaw !" 

"  And  skinny  hands,  did  yoii  say  ?" 

"  Lean,  long,  and  pokerish !" 

"  And  so  very  clever  ?" 

"  Knows  everything,  Phil !" 

"  But  a  sweet  voice  ?" 

"  Um  !  everybody  says  so." 

"  And  high  temper  ?" 

"  She's  the  devil,  Phil !  don't  ask  any  more  questions  about 
her." 

"You  don't  like  her,  then  ?" 

"  She  never  condescends  to  speak  to  me;  how  should  I." 

And  thereupon  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  sleigh,  and  employed 
myself  with  catching  the  snow-flakes  on  my  nose,  and  thinking 
whether  Edith  Linsey  would  like  me  or  no  ;  for,  through  all  Fred's 
derogatory  descriptions,  it  was  clearly  evident  that  she  was  the 
ruling  spirit  of  the  hospitable  household  of  the  Flemings. 

As  we  got  farther  on,  the  new  snow  became  deeper,  and  we 
found  that  the  last  storm  had  been  heavier  here  than  in  the  coun- 
try from  which  we  had  come.  The  occasional  farm-houses 
were  ahnost  wholly  buried,  the   black  chimney  alone  appearing 


EARLIER  DAYS.  5 

above  the  ridgy  drifts,  while  the  tops  of  the  doors  and  win- 
dows lay  below  the  level  of  the  trodden  road,  from  which  a  de- 
scending passage  was  cut  to  the  threshold,  like  the  entrance  to  a 
cave  in  the  earth.  The  fences  were  quite  invisible.  The  fruit- 
trees  looked  diminished  to  shrubberies  of  snow-flowers,  their 
trunks  buried  under  the  visible  surface,  and  their  branches  loaded 
with  the  still  falling  flakes,  till  they  bent  beneath  the  burden. 
Nothing  was  abroad,  for  nothing  could  stir  out  of  the  road  without 
danger  of  being  lost,  and  we  dreaded  to  meet  even  a  single  sleigh, 
lest,  in  turning  out,  the  horses  should  '^  slump"  beyond  their  depth, 
in  the  untrodden  drifts.  The  poor  animals  began  to  labor  severely, 
4ind  sunk  at  every  step  over  their  knees  in  the  clogging  and  wool- 
like substance ;  and  the  long  and  cumbrous  sleigh  rose  and  fell 
in  the  deep  pits  like  a  boat  in  a  heavy  sea.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  get  on.  Twice  we  brought  up  with  a  terrible  plunge  and  stood 
suddenly  still,  for  the  runners  had  struck  in  too  deep  for  the 
strrngth  of:the  horses;  and,  with  the  snow-shovels,  which  formed 
a  p.trt  of  the  furniture  of  the  vehicle,  we  dug  them  from  their  con- 
crete beds.  Our  progress  at  last  was  reduced  to  scarce  a  mile  in 
the  hour,  and  we  began  to  have  apprehensions  that  our  team 
would  give  out  between  the  post-houses.  Fortunately  it  was  still 
warm,  for  the  numbness  of  cold  would  have  paralyzed  our  already 
flagging  exertions. 

"We  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  long  hill  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  The  poor  beasts  stood  panting  and  reeking  with  sweat ; 
the  runners  of  the  sleigh  were  clogged  with  hard  cakes  of  snow. 
and  the  air  was  close  and  dispiriting.  We  came  to  a  stand-still, 
with  the  vehicle  lying  over  almost  on  its  side,  and  I  stepped  out 
to  speak  to  the  driver  and  look  forward.  It  was  a  discouraging 
prospect ;  a  long  deep  valley  lay  before  us,  closed  at  the  distance 


e  SNOW  PERILS. 

of  a  couple  of  miles  by  another  steep  hill,  through  a  cleft  in  tha 
top  of  which  lay  our  way.  We  could  not  even  distinguish  the 
line  of  the  road  between.  Our  disheartened  animals  stood  at  this 
moment  buried  to  their  breasts,  and  to  get  forward  without  rearing 
at  every  step  seemed  impossible.  The  driver  sat  on  his  box  look- 
ing uneasily  down  into  the  valley.  It  was  one  undulating  ocean 
of  snow,  not  a  sign  of  a  human  habitation  to  be  seen,  and  even  the 
trees  'indistiuguishable  from  the  general  mass  by  their  whitened 
and  overladen  branches.  The  storm  had  ceased,  but  the  usual 
sharp  cold  that  succeeds  a  warm  fall  of  snow  had  not  yet  lightened 
the  clamminess  of  the  new-fallen  flakes,  and  they  clung  around 
the  foot  like  clay,  rendering  every  step  a  toil. 

"  Your  leaders  are  quite  blown,"  I  said  to  the  driver,  as  he 
slid  off  his  uncomfortable  seat. 

"  Pretty  nearly,  sir  !" 

"  And  your  wheelers  are  not  much  bettor." 

"  Scrt'cely." 

'^  And  what  do  you  think  of  the  weather  .^" 

"  It'll  be  darnation  cold  in  an  hour."  As  he  spoke,  he  looked 
jp  to  the  sky,  which  was  already  peeling  off  its  clouds  in  long 
stripes,  like  the  skhi  of  an  orange,  and  looked  as  hard  and  cold 
as  marble  between  the  widening  rifts.  A  sudden  gust  of  a  more 
chilling  temperature  followed  iinmodiatcly  upon  his  pi-ediction,  and 
the  long  cloth  curtains  of  the  sleigh  flew  clear  off  their  slight 
pillars,  and  shook  off  their  fringes  of  icicles. 

"  Could  you  shovel  a  little,  mister  .'"  said  the  driver,  handing 
me  one  of  the  broad  wooden  utensils  from  his  foot-board,  and 
commencing,  himself,  after  having  thrown  off  his  box-coat,  by 
heaving  up  a  solid  cake  of  the  moist  snow  at  the  side  of  the 
road. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  7 

*^  It's  just  to  make  a  place  to  rub  down  tliem  creturs,"  said  he, 
05  I  looked  at  him,  quite  puzzled  to  know  what  he  was  going  to 
do. 

Fred  was  too  weak  to  assist  us,  and  haying  righted  the  yr']\'<]  ■ 
a  little,  and  tied  down  the  flapping  curtains,  he  wrapp  ;]  ]di,:r.  It 
m  his  cloak,  and  I  set  heartily  to  work  with  my  ph<;vel.  In  a  few 
minutes,  taking  advantage  of  the  hollow  of  a  diifi.  we  had  cleared 
a  small  area  of  frozen  ground,  and.  r  1  usiii;  ihe  tired  animals  from 
their  harness,  we  rubbed  ih^zii  wt'll  down  with  the  straw  from  the 
bottom  of  the  sleigh,  i'hf  ].j: severing  driver  then  cleared  the 
runners  of  their  ioed  ^n  1  clinging  masses,  and,  a  half  hour  having 
elapsed,  he  produced  two  bottles  of  rum  from  his  box,  and,  giving 
each  of  the  horses  a  dose,  put  them  again  to  their  traces. 

We  heaved  out  of  the  pit  into  which  the  sleigh  had  settled,  and 
Pjr  th  .'  first  mile  it  was  down-hill,  and  we  got  on  with  compara 
{ivo  case.  The  sky  was  by  this  time  almost  bare,  a  dark,  slaty 
mass  of  clouds  alone  settling  on  the  horizon  in  the  quarter  of  the 
wind;,  while  the  sun,  as  powerless  as  moonlight,  poured  with  daz- 
zling splendor  on  the  snow,  and  the  gusts  came  keen  and  bitter 
across  the  spaikiing  waste,  rimming  the  nostrils  as  if  with  bands 
of  steel,  and  penetrating  to  the  innermost  nerve  with  their  pungent 
iciness.  No  protection  seemed  of  any  avail.  The  whole  surface 
.of  the  body  ached  as  if  it  were  laid  against  a  slab  of  ice.  The 
throat  closed  instinctively,  and  contracted  its  unpleasant  respira- 
ration — the  body  and  limbs  drew  irresistibly  together,  to  econo- 
mize', like  a  hedge-hog,  the  exposed  surftice — the  hands  and  feet 
felt  transmuted  to  lead — and  across  the  forehead,  below  the  pres- 
sure of  the  cap,  there  was  a  binding  and  oppressive  ache,  as  if  a 
bar  of  frosty  iron  had  been  let  into  the  scull.  The  mind,  mean- 
time, seem-^.'l  t.--"-^.:ing  up — unwillingness  to  stir,  and  inability  to 


8  DESPERATE  WORK. 

think  of  anything  but  the  cold,  becoming  every  instant  more  de- 
cided. 

From  the  bend  of  the  valley  our  diJ0Bculties  became  more  serious. 
The  drifts  often  lay  across  the  road  like  a  wall,  some  feet  above 
the  heads  of  the  horses,  and  we  had  dug  through  one  or  two,  and 
had  been  once  upset,  and  often  near  it,  before  we  came  to  the 
steepest  part  of  the  ascent.  The  horses  had  by  this  time  begun 
to  feel  the  excitement  of  the  rum,  and  bounded  on  through  the 
snow  with  continual  leaps,  jerking  the  sleigh  after  them  with  a 
violence  that  threatened  momently  to  break  the  traces.  The 
steam  from  their  bodies  froze  instantly,  and  covered  them  with  a 
coat  like  hoar-frost ;  and,  spite  of  their  heat,  and  the  unnatural  and 
violent  exertions  they  were  making,  it  was  evident  by  the  pricking 
of  their  ears,  and  the  sudden  crouch  of  the  body  when  a  stronger 
blast  swept  over,  that  the  cold  struck  through  even  their  hot  and 
intoxicated  blood. 

We  toiled  up,  leap  after  leap,  and  it  seemed  miraculous  to  me 
that  the  now  infuriated  animals  did  not  burst  a  blood-vessel  or 
crack  a  sinew  with  every  one  of  those  terrible  springs.  The  sleigh 
plunged  on  after  them,  stopping  dead  and  short  at  ovory  other 
moment,  and  reeling  over  the  heavy  drifts,  like  a  boat  in  a  surging 
sea.  A  finer  crystallization  had  meantime  taken  place  upon  the 
surface  of  the  moist  snow,  and  the  powdered  particles  flew  almost  ■ 
insensibly  on  the  blasts  of  wind,  filling  the  eyes  and  hair,  and 
cutting  the  skin  with  a  sensation  like  the  touch  of  needle-points. 
The  driver,  and  his  maddened  but  almost  exhausted  team,  were 
blinded  by  the  glittering  and  whirling  eddies,  the  cold  grew  in- 
censer  every  moment,  the  forward  motion  gradually  less  and  less, 
and  when,  with  the  very  last  effort  apparently,  we  reached  a  spot 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  which,  from  its  exposed  situation,  had 


£ARLI£R  DATS.  f 

^  been  kept  bare  by  the  wind,  the  patient  and  persevering  whip 
brought  his  horses  to  a  stand,  and  despaired,  for  the  first  time,  of 
his  prospects  of  getting  on.  I  crept  out  of  the  sleigh,  the  iron- 
bound  runners  of  which  now  grated  on  the  bare  ground,  but  found 
it  impossible  to  stand  upright. 

"  if  you  can  use  your  hands,"  said  the  driver,  turning  his  back 
to  the  wind,  which  stung  the  face  like  the  lash  of  a  whip,  "  I'll 
trouble  you  to  un tackle  them  horses." 

I  set  about  it,  while  he  buried  his  hands  and  face  in  the  snow 
to  relieve  them  for  a  moment  from  the  agony  of  cold.  The  poor 
animals  staggered  stiffly  as  I  pushed  them  aside,  and  every  vein 
stood  out  from  their  bodies  like  ropes  under  the  skin. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  I  asked,  as  he  joined  me  again, 
and  taking  off  the  harness  of  one  of  the  leaders,  flung  it  into  the 
snow. 

"  Ride  for  life  !"  was  his  ominous  answer. 

"  Grood  God  !  and  what  is  to  become  of  my  sick  friend  .?" 

"  The  Almighty  knows — if  he  can't  ride  to  the  tavern  !" 

I  sprang  instantly  to  poor  Fred,  who  was  lying  in  the  bottom 
of  the  sleigh  almost  frozen  to  death,  informed  him  of  the  driver's 
decision,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could  ride  one  of  the 
horses.  He  was  beginning  to  grow  drowsy,  the  first  symptom  of 
death  by  cold,  and  could  with  difficulty  be  roused.  "With  the 
driver's  assistance,  however,  I  lifted  him  out  of  the  sleigh,  shook 
him  soundly,  and,  making  stirrups  of  the  traces,  set  him  upon  one 
of  the  horses,  and  started  him  off  before  us.  The  poor  beasts 
seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  of  the  necessity  of  exertioo,  and, 
though  stiff  and  sluggish,  entered  willingly  upon  the  deep  drift  which 
bloiiked  up  the  way,  and  toilad  exhaustedly  on.  The  cold  in  our 
exposed  position  was  &g6mzmg.     Every  small  fibr«  in  the  skia  of 


10  FIRST  INTRODUCTION. 

niy  own  face  felt  splitting  and  cracked,  and  my  eyelids  seemed 
made  of  ice.  Our  limbs  soon  lost  ^11  sensation.  I  could  only 
press  with  my  knees  to  the  horse's  side,  and  the  whole  collected 
energy  of  my  frame  seemed  expended  in  the  exertion.  Fred  held 
on  wonderfully.  The  driver  had  sfill  the  use  of  his  arm,  and  rode 
behind,  flogging  the  poor  animals  on,  whose  every  step  seemed  to 
be  the  last  summons  of  energy.  The  sun  set,  and  it  was  rather  a 
relief,  for  the  glitter  upon  the  snow  was  exceedingly  painful  to  the 
sight,  and  there  was  no  warmth  in  its  beams.  I  could  see  my 
poor  friend  drooping  gradually  to  the  neck  of  his  horse,  but,  until 
he  should  drop  off,  it  was  impossible  to  assist  him,  and  his  faithful 
animal  still  waded  on.  I  felt  my  own  strength  fast  ebbing  away. 
If  I  had  been  alone,  I  should  certainly  have  lain  down,  with  the 
almost  irresistible  inclination  to  sleep  ;  but  the  thought  of  my 
friend,  and  the  shouting  of  the  energetic  driver,  nerved  me  from 
time  to  time — and,  with  hands  hanging  helplessly  down,  and  elbows 
fastened  convulsively  to  my  side,  we  plunged  and  struggled  pain- 
fully forward.  I  but  remember  being  taken  afterward  to  a  fire, 
and  shrinking  from  it  with  a  shriek — the  suffering  of  reviving  con- 
sciousness was  so  intolerable.  We  had  reached  the  tavern  liter- 
ally frozen  upon  our  horses. 

n. 

I  was  balancmg  my  spoon  on  the  edge  of  a  cup  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  when  Fred  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  an  eulogium  on  my  virtues  as  a  nurse,  and  a  lady  enter- 
ing at  the  same  moment,  he  said  simply  in  parenthesis,  "  My 
cousin  Edith,  Mr.  Slingsby,"  and  went  on  with  his  story.  I  rose 
and  bowed,  and,  as  Fred  had  the  jparoh^  I  had  time  to  collect  my 


EARLIER  DAYS.  H 


courage,  and  take  a  look  at  the  enemy's  camp — for,  of  that  con- 
siderable household,  I  felt  my  star  to  be  in  conjunction  or  oppo- 
sition with  her's  only,  who  was  at  that  moment  my  vis-d-vis  across 
a  dish  of  stewed  oysters. 

In  about  five  minutes  of  rapid  mental  portrait-painting,  I  had 
taken  a  likeness  of  Edith  Linsey,  which  I  see  at  this  moment  (I 
have  carried  it  about  the  world  ever  since)  as  distinctly  as  the 
incipient  lines  of  care  in  this  thin-wearing  hand.  My  feelings 
changed  in  that  time  from  dread  or  admiration,  or  something  be- 
tween these,  to  pity ;  she  was  so  unscrupulously  and  hopelessly 
plain — so  wretchedly  ill  and  suffering  in  her  aspect — so  spiritless 
and  unhappy  in  every  motion  and  look.  "  I'll  win  her  heart," 
thought  I,  "by  being  kind  to  her.  Poor  thing  !  it  will  be  some- 
thing new  to  her,  I  dare  say  !"  Oh,  Philip  Slingsby  !  what  a 
doomed  donkey  thou  wert  for  that  silly  soliloquy  ! 

And  yet,  even  as  she  sat  there,  leaning  over  her  untasted  break- 
fast, listless,  ill,  and  melancholy — ^with  her  large  mouth,  her  pro- 
truding eyes,  her  dead  and  sallow  complexion,  and  not  one 
redeeming  feature — there  was  something  in  her  face  which  pro- 
duced a  phantom  of  beauty  in  my  mind — a  glimpse,  a  shadowing  of 
a  countenance  that  Beatrice  Cenci  might  have  worn  at  her  last 
innocent  orison — a  loveliness  moulded  and  exalted  by  superhuman 
and  overpowering  mind — instinct  through  all  its  sweetness  with 
energy  and  fire.  So  strong  was  this  phantom  portrait,  that  in  all 
my  thoughts  of  her,  as  an  angel  in  heaven,  (for  I  supposed  her 
dying  for  many  a  month,  and  a  future  existence  was  her  own  most 
frequent  theme),  she  always  rose  to  my  fancy  with  a  face  half 
Niobe,  half  Psyche,  radiantly  lovely.  And  this,  too,  with  a  face 
of  her  own,  a  bond  fide  physiognomy,  that  must  have  made  a  mirror 
an  unpleasant  article  of  furniture  in  her  bed-room. 


12  LOVE  COMMENCING. 

I  have  no  suspicion,  in  my  own  mind,  whether  Time  was  drunk 
or  sober  during  the  succeeding  week  of  those  Christmas  holydays. 
The  second  Saturday  had  come  round,  and  I  just  remember  that 
Fred  was  very  much  out  of  humor  with  me  for  having  appeared 
to  his  friends  to  be  everything  he  said  I  was  not^  and  nothing  he 
said  I  wat.  He  had  described  me  as  the  most  uproarious,  noisy, 
good-humored,  and  agreeable  dog  in  the  world.  And  I  was  not 
that,  at  all — particularly  the  last.  The  old  judge  told  him  he  had 
not  improved  in  his  penetration  at  the  university. 

A  week  !  and  what  a  life  had  been  clasped  within  its  brief  cal- 
endar, for  me  !  Edith  Linsey  was  two  years  older  than  T,  and  I 
was  considered  a  boy.  She  was  thought  to  be  dying  slowly,  but 
irretrievably,  of  consumption ;  and  it  was  little  matter  whom  she 
loved,  or  how.  They  would  only  have  been  pleased,  if,  by  a  new 
affection,  she  could  beguile  the  preying  melancholy  of  illness  ;  for, 
by  that  gentle  name,  they  called,  in  their  kindness,  a  caprice  and 
a  bitterness  of  character  that,  had  she  been  less  a  sufferer, 
would  not  have  been  endured  for  a  day.  But  she  was  not  capri- 
cious, or  bitter  to  me  !  Oh,  no  !  And  from  the  very  extreme  of 
her  impatience  with  others — from  her  rudeness,  her  violence,  her 
sarcasm — she  came  to  me  with  a  heart  softer  than  a  child's,  and 
wept  upon  my  hands,  and  weighed  every  word  that  might  give  me 
offence,  and  watched  to  anticipate  my  lighest  wish,  and  was  humble, 
and  generous,  and  passionately  loving  and  dependent.  Her  heart 
sprang  to  me  with  a  rebound.  She  gave  herself  up  to  me  with  an 
utter  and  desperate  abandonment,  that  owed  something  to  her 
peculiar  character,  but  more  to  her  own  solemn  conviction  that 
she  was  dying — that  her  best  hope  of  life  was  not  worth  a  week's 
purchase. 

We  had  begun  with  books,  and  upon  them  her  past  enthusiasm 


EARLIER  DAYS.  13 


had  hitherto  been  released.  She  loved  her  favorite  authors  with 
a  passion.  They  had  relieved  her  heart ;  and  there  was  nothing 
of  poetry  or  philosophy,  that  was  deep,  or  beautiful,  in  which  she 
had  not  steeped  her  very  soul.  How  well  I  remember  her  repeating 
to  me  from  Shelley  those  glorious  lines  to  the  soaring  swan  : — 

"  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird  !     Thou  voyagest  to  thy  home — 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
"With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  with  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy ! 
And  what  am  I,  that  1  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beaut}',  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
To  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts !" 

There  was  a  lung  room  in  the  southern  wing  of  the  house, 
fitted  up  as  a  library.  It  was  a  heavily-curtainod,  dim  old  place, 
with  deep-embayed  windows,  and  so  many  nooks,  and  so  much 
furniture,  that  there  was  that  hushed  air,  that  absence  of  echo 
within  it,  which  is  the  great  charm  of  a  haunt  for  study  or  thought. 
It  was  Edith's  kingdom.  She  might  lock  the  door,  if  she  pleased, 
or  shut  or  open  the  windows  ;  in  short,  when  she  was  there,  no 
one  thought  of  disturbing  her,  and  she  was  like  a  "  spirit  in  its 
cell,"  invisible  and  inviolate.  And  here  I  drank,  into  my  very  life 
and  soul,  the  outpourings  of  a  bosom  that  had  been  locked  till  (as 
we  both  thought)  the  last  hour  of  its  life — a  flow  of  mingled  intel- 
lect and  passion  that  overran  my  heart  like  lava,  sweeping  every- 
thing into  its  resistless  fire,  and  (may  God  forgive  her  !)  leaving  it 
scorched  and  desolate  when  its  mocking  brightness  had  gone  out 


14  INTELLECTUAL  COMMUNION. 

I  remember  that  ^'  Elia" — Charles  Lamb's  Elia— was  the  fa- 
vorite of  favorites  among  her  books  ;  and,  partly,  that  the  lata 
death  of  this  most-to-be-loved  author  reminded  me  to  look  it  up, 
and,  partly,  to  have  time  to  draw  back  my  indifference  over  a  sub- 
ject that  it  something  stirs  me  to  recall,  you  shall  read  an  imita- 
tion (or  continuation,  if  you  will)  that  I  did  for  Edith's  eye,  of 
his  "  Essay  on  Books  and  Reading."  I  sat  with  her  dry  and 
fleshless  hand  in  mine  while  I  read  it  to  her,  and  the  fingers  of 
Psyche  were  never  fairer  to  Canova  than  they  to  me. 

"  It  is  a  little  singular,"  I  began  (looking  into  her  eyes  as  long 
as  I  could  remember  what  I  had  written),  "  that,  among  all  the 
elegancies  of  sentiment  for  which  the  age  is  remarkable,  no  one 
should  ever  have  thought  of  writing  a  book  upon  ^  Reading.'  The 
refinements  of  the  true  epicure  in  books  are  surely  as  various  as 
those  of  the  gastronome  and  the  opium-eater  ;  and  I  can  conceive 
of  no  rea?=(in  vrliy  a  topic  of  such  natural  occurrence  should  have 
been  so  1  mg  nagloct:^'!,  unless  it  is  that  that  the  taste  itself,  being 
rather  a  growth  of  indolence,  has  never  numbered  among  its  vo- 
taries one  of  the  busy  craft  of  writers. 

"  The  ix^-oat  proportion  of  men  read,  as  they  eat,  for  hunger. 
1  do  not  C!Jn^ider  them  readers.  Th"  tru3  secret  of  the  thino^  is 
u 0  more  adapted  to  their  comprehension,  then  the  sublimations 
of  Louis  Eustace  Ude  for  the  taste  of  a  day-laborer.  The  re- 
fined reading-taste,  like  the  palate  of  gourmand erie^  must  have 
got  beyond  appetite — ^gross  appetite.  It  shall  be  that  of  a  man 
who,  having  fed  through  childhood  and  youth  on  simple  knowledge, 
values  now,  only,  as  it  were,  the  apotheosis  of  learning — the  spiri- 
tual narc.  There  are,  it  is  true,  instances  of  a  keen  natural 
relish  :  a  boy,  as  you  will  sometimes  find  one,  of  a  premature 
thoughtfulness,  will  carry  a   favorite  author  in'  his  bosom,,  and 


EARLIER  DAYS.  15 


feast  greedily  on  it  in  his  stolen  hours.     Elia  tells  the  ex^i^aisitd 
story : 

'  I  saw  a  boy,  with  eager  eye, 
Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 
And  read  as  he'd  devour  it  all ; 
'  ^k     Which,  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 
mt      ^^    Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 
"  You,  sir,  you  never  buy  a  book, 
Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look !" 
The  boy  passed  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh, 
He  wished  he  had  never  been  taught  to  read — 
Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have  had  no  need.* 

"  The  pleasure  as  well  as  the  profit  of  reading  depends  as  much 
npon  time  and  manner,  as  upon  the  book.  The  mind  is  an  opal 
— changing  its  color  with  every  shifting  shade.  Ease  of  positiwi 
is  especially  necessary.  A  muscle  strained,  a  nerve  unpoised,  an 
admitted  sunbeam  caught  upon  a  mirror,  are  slight  circumstances ; 
but  a  feather  may  tickle  the  dreamer  from  paradise  to  earth. 
*  Many  a  fro  ward  axiom,'  says  a  refined  writer,  *  many  an  in- 
humane thought,  hath  arisen  from  sitting  uncomfortably,  or  from 
a  want  of  s^nnmetry  in  your  chamber.'  Who  has  not  felt,  at 
times,  an  unaccountable  disrelish  for  a  favorite  author  ?  Who 
has  not,  by  a  sudden  noise  in  the  street,  been  startled  from  a 
reading  dream,  and  found,  afterward,  that  the  broken  spell  was 
not' to  be  rewound  ?  An  ill-tied  cravat  may  unlink  the  rich  har- 
monies of  Taylor.  You  would  not  think  Barry  Cornwall  the 
delicious  heart  he  is,  reading  him  in  a  tottering  chair. 

"  There  is  much  in  the  mood  with  which  you  come  to  a  book. 
If  you  have  been  vexed  out  of  doors,  the  good  humor  of  an  author 
seems  unnatural.      I  think  I  should  scarce  relish  the  *  gentle 


ja  EPICURISM  OF  READING. 


spiriting  *  of  Ariel  with  a  pulse  of  ninety  in  the  minute.  Or,  if  I 
had  been  touched  by  the  unkindness  of  a  friend,  Jack  Falstafl 
would  not  move  me  to  laughter  as  easily  as  he  is  wont.  There 
are  tones  of  the  mind,  however,  to  which  a  book  will  vibrate  with 
a  harmony  than  which  there  is  nothing  more  exquisite  in  nature. 
To  go  abroad  at  sunrise  in  June,  and  admit  all  the  holy  influ- 
ences of  the  hour — stillness,  and  purity,  and  balm — to  a  mind 
subdued  and  dignified,  as  the  mind  will  be  by  the  sacred  tranquil- 
lity of  sleep,  and  then  to  come  in  with  bathed  and  refreshed 
senses,  and  a  temper  of  as  clear  joyfulness  as  the  soaring  lark's, 
and  sit  down  to  Milton  or  Spenser,  or,  almost  loftier  still,  the 
divine  *  Prometheus'  of  Shelley,  has  seemed  to  me  a  harmony  of 
delight  almost  too  heavenly  to  be  human.  The  great  secret  of 
such  pleasure  is  sympathy.  You  must  climb  to  the  eagle  poet's 
eyry.  You  must  have  senses,  like  his,  for  the  music  that  is  only 
audible  to  the  fine  ear  of  thought,  and  the  beauty  that  is  visible 
only  to  the  spirit-eye  of  a  clear,  and,  for  the  time,  unpolluted 
fancy.  The  stamp  and  pressure  of  the  magician's  own  time  and 
season  must  be  upon  you.  You  would  not  read  Ossian,  for  ex- 
ample, in  a  bath,  or  sitting  under  a  tree  in  a  sultry  noon ;  but 
after  rushing  into  the  eye  of  the  wind  with  a  fleet  horse,  with  all 
his  gallant  pride  and  glorious  strength  and  fire  obedient  to  your 
rein,  and  so  mingling,  as  it  will,  with  his  rider's  consciousness, 
that  you  feel  as  if  you  were  gifted  in  your  own  body  with  the 
swiftness  and  energy  of  an  angel,  after  this,  to  sit  down  to  Ossian. 
is  to  read  him  with  a  magnificence  of  delusion,  to  my  mind  scarce 
less  than  reality.  I  never  envied  Napoleon  till  I  heard  it  was  hhs 
habit,  after  a  battle,  to  read  Ossian. 

"  You   cannot  often  read  to  music.     But  I  love,  when  the 
Toluatary  is  pealing  in  church — every  breath  in  th«  congregaticHJ 


EARLIER  DAYS.  17 


suppressed,  and  the  deep-volumed  notes  pouring  through  the 
arches  of  the  roof  with  the  sublime  and  almost  articulate  praise 
of  the  organ — to  read,  from  the  pew  Bible,  the  book  of  Ecclesi- 
astes.  The  solemn  stateliness  of  its  periods  is  fitted  to  music  like 
a  hymn.  It  is  to  me  a  spring  of  the  most  thrilling  devotion — 
though  I  shame  to  confess  that  the  richness  of  its  eastern  im- 
agery, and,  above  all,  the  inimitable  beauty  of  its  philosophy, 
stand  out  somewhat  definitely  in  the  reminiscences  of  the  hour. 

"  A  taste  for  reading  comes  comparatively  late.  ^  Robinson 
Crusoe'  will  turn  a  boy's  head  at  ten.  The  '  Arabian  Nights' 
are  taken  to  bed  with  us  at  twelve.  At  fourteen,  a  forward  boy 
will  read  the  '  Lady  of  the  Lake,'  '  Tom  Jones,'  and  *  Peregrine 
Pickle  ;'  and  nt  ^cvf^Dteen  (not  before)  he  is  ready  for  Shak> 
fepere,  and,  if  he  is  of  a  thoughtful  turn,  Milton.  Most  men  do 
not  read  these  last  with  a  true  relish  till  after  this  period.  The 
hidden  beauties  of  standard  authors  break  upon  the  mind  by  su 
prise.  It  is  like  discovering  a  secret  spring  in  an  old  jewel.  \  jU 
take  up  the  book  in  an  idle  moment,  as  you  have  done  a  thousand 
times  before,  perhaps  wondering,  as  you  turn  over  the  leaves, 
what  the  world  finds  in  it  to  admire,  when,  suddenly  as  you  read, 
your  fingers  press  close  upon  the  covers,  your  frame  thrills,  and 
the  passage  you  have  chanced  upon,  chains  you  like  a  spell — it  is 
so  vividly  true  and  beautiful.  Milton's  '  Comus'  flashed  upon  mc 
in  this  way.  I  never  could  read  the  '  Rape  of  the  Lock'  till  a 
friend  quoted  some  passages  from  it  during  a  walk.  I  know  no 
more  exquisite  sensation  than  this  warming  of  the  heart  to  an  old 
author  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  most  delicious  portion  of 
intellectual  existence  is  the  brief  period  in  which,  one  by  one,  the 
great  minds  of  old  are  admitted  with  all  their  time-mellowed  worth 
to  the  affections.     Witk  what  delight  I  read,  for  the  first  time, 


i$  OLD  AUTHORS. 


the  *  kind-hearted'  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher!  How  1 
doated  on  Burton!  What  treasures  to  me  were  the  ^ Fairy 
Queen'  and  the  Lyrics  of  Milton  ! 

"  I  used  to  think,  when  studying  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets  in 
my  boyhood,  that,  to  be  made  a  school-author,  was  a  fair  offset 
against  immortality.  I  would  as  lief,  it  seemed  to  me,  have  my 
verses  handed  down  by  the  town-crier.  But  latterly,  after  a© 
interval  of  a  few  years,  I  have  taken  up  my  classics  (the  identical 
school  copies  with  the  hard  places  all  thumbed  and  pencilled) 
and  have  read  them  with  no  little  pleasure.  It  is  not  to  be  be- 
lieved with  what  a  satisfaction  the  riper  eye  glides  smoothly  over 
the  once  difficult  line,  finding  the  golden  cadence  of  poetry  be- 
neath what  once  seemed  only  a  tangled  chaos  of  inversion.  The 
associations  of  hard  study,  instead  of  reviving  the  old  distaste, 
added  wonderfully  to  the  interest  of  a  re~perusal.  I  could  see  now 
what  brightened  the  sunken  eye  of  the  pale  and  sickly  master,  as 
he  took  up  the  hesitating  passage,  and  read  on,  forgetful  of  the 
delinquent,  to  the  end.  I  could  enjoy  now,  what  was  a  dead 
letter  to  me  then,  the  heightened  fullness  of  Herodotus,  and  the 
strong-woven  style  of  Thucydides,  and  the  magnificent  invention 
of  jEschylus.  I  took  an  aversion  to  Homer  from  hearing  a  class- 
mate in  the  next  room  scan  it  perpetually  through  his  nose. 
There  is  no  music  for  me  in  the  '  Iliad.'  But,  spite  of  the  recol- 
lections scored  alike  upon  my  palm  and  the  margin,  I  own  to  an 
Augustan  relish  for  the  smooth  melody  of  Virgil,  and  freely  for- 
give the  sometime  -oublesome  ferule — enjoying  by  its  aid  the 
raciness  of  Horace  and  Juvenal,  and  the  lofty  philosophy  of  Lu- 
cretius. It  will  be  a  dear  friend  to  whom  I  put  down,  in  my  will, 
that  shelf  of  defaced  classics. 

**  There  are  some  books  that  bear  reading  pleasantly  once  a 


EARLIER  DAYS.  19 


year,  ^  Tristram  Shandy'  is  an  annual  with  me — I  read  him  regu- 
larly about  Christmas.  Jeremy  Taylor  (not  to  mingle  things  holy 
and  profane)  is  a  good  table-book,  to  be  used  when  you  would  collect 
your  thoughts  and  be  serious  a  while.  A  man  of  taste  need  never 
want  fcr  Sunday  reading  while  he  can  find  the  sermons  of  Taylor, 
and  South,  and  Fuller — writers  of  good  theological  repute — though, 
between  ourselves,  I  think  one  likelier  to  be  delighted  with  the  po- 
etry and  quaint  fancifulness  of  their  style,  than  edified  by  the  piety 
it  covers.  I  like  to  have  a  quarto  edition  of  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  on 
a  near  shelf,  or  Milton's  prose  works,  or  Bacon.  There  are  health- 
ful moods  of  the  mind  when  lighter  nutriment  is  distasteful. 

"  1  am  growing  fastidious  in  poetry,  and  confine  myself  more  and 
more  to  the  old  writers.  Castaly  of  late  runs  shallow.  Shelley's 
(peace  to  his  passionate  heart !)  was  a  deep  draught,  and  Words- 
v>-orth  and  Wilson  sit  near  the  well,  and  Keats  and  Barry  Corn- 
wall have  been  to  the  fountain's  lip,  feeding  their  imaginations 
(the  latter  his  heart  as  well),  but  they  have  brought  back  little  for 
th?  world.  The  'small  silver  stream'  will,  I  fear,  soon  cease  to 
flow  down  to  us,  and,  as  it  dries  back  to  its  source,  we  shall  close 
nearer  and  nearer  upon  the  '  pure  English  undefiled.'  The  dab- 
blers in  muddy  waters  (tributaries  to  Lethe)  will  have  Parnassus 
to  themselves. 

"  The  finest  pleasures  of  reading  come  unbidden.  You  cannot, 
n'ith  your  choicest  appliances  for  the  body,  always  command  the 
tnany-toned  mind.  In  the  twilight  alco^ve  of  a  library,  with  a 
time-mellowed  chair  yialding  luxuriously  to  your  pressure,  a  June 
wind  laden  with  idleness  and  balm  floating  in  at  the  window,  and, 
in  your  hand,  some  Russia-bound,  rambling  old  author,  as  Izaak 
"Walton,  good-humored  and  quaint,  one  would  think  the  spirit 
could  scarce  fail  to  be  conjured.     Yet  often,  after  spending  a 


20  EPICURISM  OF  READING. 


morning  hour  restlessly  thus,  I  have  risen  with  my  mind  unhinged, 
and  strolled  off  with  a  book  in  my  pocket  to  the  woods ;  and,  as  I 
live,  the  mood  has  descended  upon  me  under  some  chance  tree, 
with  a  crooked  root  under  my  head ;  and  I  have  lain  there,  read- 
ing and  sleeping  by  turns,  till  the  letters  were  blurred  in  the 
dimness  of  twilight.  It  is  the  evil  of  refinement  that  it  breeds 
caprice.  You  will  sometimes  stand  unfatigued  for  hours  on  the 
steps  of  a  library  ;  or,  in  a  shop,  the  eye  will  be  arrested,  and  the 
jostling  of  customers  and  the  looks  of  the  jealous  shopman  will 
not  divert  you  till  you  have  read  out  the  chapter. 

"  I  do  not  often  indulge  in  the  supernatural,  for  I  am  an  un- 
willing believer  in  ghosts,  and  the  topic  excites  me.  But,  for  its 
connexion  with  the  subject  upon  which  I  am  writing,  I  must  con- 
clude these  rambling  observations  with  a  late  mysterious  visitation 
of  my  own. 

"  1  had,  during  the  last  year,  given  up  the  early  summer  tea- 
parties,  common  in  the  town  in  which  the  university  stands  ;  and 
having,  of  course,  three  or  four  more  hours  than  usual  on  my 
hands,  I  took  to  an  afternoon  habit  of  imaginative  reading.  Shak- 
speare  came  first,  naturally  ;  and  I  feasted  for  the  hundredth  time 
upon  what  I  think  his  (and  the  world's)  most  delicate  creation — 
the  ^  Tempest.'  The  twilight  of  the  first  day  overtook  me  at  the 
third  act,  where  the  banquet  is  brought  in  with  solemn  music,  by 
the  fairy  troop  of  Prospero,  and  set  before  the  shipwrecked  kinc 
and  his  followers.  I  closed  the  book,  and,  leaning  back  in  my 
chair,  abandoned  myself  to  the  crowd  of  images  which  thronz 
always  upon  the  traces  of  Shakspeare.  The  fancy  music  was  still 
in  my  mind,  when  an  apparently  real  strain  of  the  most  solemn 
melody  came  to  my  ear,  dying,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  it  reached  it, 
the  tones  were  so  expiringly  faint  and  low.     I  was  not  startled, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  33 


but  lay  quietly,  holding  my  breath,  and  more  fearing  when  the 
strain  would  be  broken,  than  curious  whence  it  came.  The 
twilight  deepened,  till  it  was  dark,  and  it  still  played  on,  changing 
the  tune  at  intervals,  but  always  of  the  same  melancholy  sweet- 
ness ;  till,  by-and-by,  1  lost  all  curiosity,  and,  giving  in  to  the 
charm,  the  scenes  I  had  been  reading  began  to  form  again  in  my 
mind ;  and  Ariel,  with  his  delicate  ministers,  and  Prospero,  and 
Miranda,  and  Caliban,  came  moving  before  me  to  the  measure,  as 
bright  and  vivid  as  the  reality.  I  was  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  it 
by  Alfonso,  who  came  in  at  the  usual  hour  with  my  tea  ;  and,  on 
starting  to  my  feet,  I  listened  in  vain  for  the  continuance  of  the 
music.  I  sat  thinking  of  it  a  while,  but  dismissed  it  at  last,  and 
went  out  to  enjoy,  in  a  solitary  walk,  the  loveliness  of  the  summer 
night.  The  next  day  I  resumed  my  book,  with  a  smile  at  my 
previous  credulity,  and  had  read  through  the  last  scenes  of  the 
*  Tempest,'  when  the  light  failed  me.  I  again  closed  the  book, 
and  presently  again,  as  if  the  sympathy  were  instantaneous,  the 
strain  broke  in,  playing  the  same  low  and  solemn  melodies,  and 
falling  with  the  same  dying  cadence  upon  the  ear.  I  listened  to 
it,  as  before,  with  breathless  attention  ;  abandoned  myself  once 
more  to  its  irresistible  spell ;  and,  half-waking,  half-sleepmg,  fell 
again  into  a  vivid  dream,  brilliant  as  fairy-land,  and  creating  it- 
self to  the  measures  of  the  still  audible  music.  I  could  not  now 
shake  off  my  belief  in  its  reality  ;  but  I  was  so  rapt  with  its 
strange  sweetness,  and  the  beauty  of  my  dream,  that  I  cared  not 
whether  it  came  from  earth  or  air.  My  indifference,  singularly 
enough,  continued  for  several  days;  and,  regularly  at  twilight,  I 
threw  aside  my  book,  and  listened  with  dreamy  wakefulness  for 
the  music.  It  never  failed  me,  and  its  results  were  as  constant 
as  its  cominsr.     Whatever  I  had  read — sometimes  a   canto  of 


22  VISION  EXPLAINED. 


Spenser,  sometimes  an  act  of  a  play,  or  a  chapter  of  romance — 
the  scene  rose  before  me  with  the  stately  reality  of  a  pageant. 
At  last  I  began  to  think  of  it  more  seriously  ;  and  it  was  a  relief 
to  me  one  evening  when  Alfonso  came  in  earlier  than  usual  with 
a  message.  I  told  him  to  stand  perfectly  still ;  and,  after  a 
minute's  pause,  during  which  I  heard  distinctly  an  entire  passage 
of  a  funeral  hymm,  I  asked  him  if  he  heard  any  music  ?  He  said 
he  did  not.  My  blood  chilled  at  his  positive  reply,  and  I  bade 
him  listen  once  more.  Still  he  heard  nothing.  I  could  endure  it 
no  longer.  It  was  to  me  as  distinct  and  audible  as  my  own  voice ; 
and  I  rushed  from  my  room  as  he  left  me,  shuddering  to  be  left 
alone. 

"  The  next  day  I  thought  of  nothing  but  death.  Warnings  by 
knells  in  the  air,  by  apparitions,  by  mysterious  voices,  were  things 
I  had  believed  in,  speculatively,  for  years,  and  now  their  truth 
came  upon  me  like  conviction.  I  felt  a  dull,  leaden  presentiment 
about  my  heart,  growing  heavier  and  heavier  with  every  passing 
hour.  Evening  came  at  last,  and  with  it,  like  a  summons  from 
the  grave,  a  ^  dead  march'  swelled  clearly  on  the  air.  I  felt  faint 
and  sick  at  heart.  This  could  not  be  fancy ;  and  why  was  it,  as 
I  thought  I  had  proved,  audible  to  my  ear  alone  .?  I  threw  open 
the  window,  and  the  first  rush  of  the  cool  north  wind  refreshed 
me;  but,  as  if  to  mock  my  attempts  at  relief,  the  dirge-like 
sounds  rose,  at  the  instant,  with  treble  distinctness.  I  seized  my 
bat  and  rushed  into  the  street,  but,  to  my  dismay,  every  step 
seemed  to  bring  me  nearer  to  the  knell.  Still  I  hurried  on,  the 
dismal  sounds  growing  distractingly  louder,  till,  on  turning  a 
corner  that  leads  to  the  lovely  burying-ground  of  New  Haven,  I 
came  suddenly  upon — a  bell  foundry  !  In  the  rear  had  lately 
been  hung,  for  trial,  the  chiming  bells  just  completed  for  the  new 


EARLIER  DAYS.  33 


Trinity  church,  and  the  master  of  the  establishment  informed  me 
that  one  of  his  journeymen  was  a  fine  player,  and  every  day,  after 
his  work,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  amusing  himself  with  the  '  Dead 
March  in  Saul,'  the  ^  Marsellois  Hymn,'  and  other  melancholy 
and  easy  tunes,  muffling  the  hammers  that  he  might  not  disturb 
the  neighbors." 

I  have  had  my  reward  for  these  speculations,  dear  reader — a 
smile  that  is  lying  at  this  instant,  perdii,,  in  the  innermost  recess 
of  memory — and  I  care  not  much  (without  offence)  whether  you 
like  it  or  no.  She  thanked  me — she  thought  it  well  done — she 
laid  her  head  on  my  bosom  while  I  read  it  in  the  old  library  of  the 
Flemings,  and  every  word  has  been  "  paid  for  in  fairy  gold." 
^^JLhave  taken  up  a  thread  that  lengthens  as  I  unravel  it,  and  I 
cannot  well  see  how  I  shall  come  to  the  end,  without  trespassing 
on  your  patience.  We  will  cut  it  here,  if  you  like,  and  resume  it 
after  a  pause  ;  but,  before  I  close,  I  must  give  you  a  little  instance 
of  how  love  makes  the  dullest  earth  poetical.  Edith  had  given 
me  a  'portefeuille  crammed  with  all  kinds  of  embossed  and  curious 
note-paper,  all  quite  too  pretty  for  use,  and  what  I  would  show 
you  are  my  verses  on  the  occasion.  For  a  hand  unpractised, 
then,  in  aught  save  the  "  Gradus  ad  Parnassum,"  I  must  own  I 
have  fished  them  out  of'  that  same  old  fortfolio  (faded  now  from 
its  glory,  and  worn  with  travel — but  0  how  cherished  !)  with  a 
pleasant  feeling  of  paternity : 

"  Thanks  for  thy  gift !    But  heardst  thou  ever 

A  story  of  a  wandering  fay, 
Who,  tired  of  playing  sylph  for  ever, 

Came  romping  to  the  earth  one  day 
And,  flirting  like  a  little  Love 

With  everything  that  flew  and  flirted, 


34  TOO  FINE  FOR  USE. 


Made  captive  of  a  sober  dove, 

Whose  pinions  (so  the  tale  asserted) , 

Though  neither  very  fresh  nor  fair, 
Were  well  enough  for  comnaon  wear? 

"  The  dove,  though  plain,  was  gentle  bred, 

And  cooed  agreeably,  though  low ; 
But  still  the  fairy  shook  her  head. 

And,  patting  with  her  foot,  said  '  No  !' 
'Twas  true  that  he  was  rather  fat  : 

But  that  was  living  in  an  abbey ; — 
And  solemn — but  it  was  not  that — 

*  What  then  V     '  W'^y,  szV,  your  wings  are  thabby.* 

**  The  dove  was  dumb :  he  drooped,  and  sidled 

In  shame  along  the  abbey-wall ; 
And  then  the  haughty  fay  unbridled, 

And  blew  her  snail-shell  trumpet-call ; 
And  summoning  her  waiting-sprite, 

Who  bore  her  wardrobe  on  his  back, 
She  took  the  wings  she  wore  at  night, 

(Silvery  stars  on  plumes  of  black,) 
And,  smiling,  begged  that  he  would  take 
And  wear  them  for  his  lady's  sake. 

"  He  took  them ;  but  he  could  not  fly ! 

A  fay -wing  was  too  fine  for  him ; 
And  when  she  pouted,  by-and-by, 

And  left  him  for  some  other  whim. 
He  laid  them  softly  in  his  nest, 

And  did  his  flying  with  his  own, 
And  they  were  soft  upon  his  breast, 

When  many  a  night  he  slept  alone ; 
And  many  a  thought  those  wings  would  stir, 
And  many  a  dream  of  love  and  her." 


EARLIER    DAYS.  IB 

PART  II. 

LOVE    AND    SPECULATION. 

Edith  Linsey  was  religious.  There  are  many  intensiflers  (a 
new  word,  that  I  can't  get  on  without :  I  submit  it  for  admission 
into  the  language)  ; — there  are  many  intensifiers,  I  say,  to  the 
passion  of  love :  such  as  pride,  jealousy,  poetry  (money,  some- 
times, Dio  mio !)  and  idleness  :*  but,  if  the  experience  of  one 
who  first  studiid  the  Art  of  Love  in  an  "  evangelical"  country  is 
worth  a  penny,  there  is  nothing  within  the  bend  of  the  rainbow  that 
deepens  the  tender  passion  like  religion.  I  speak  it  not  irreve- 
rently. The  human  being  that  loves  us  throws  the  value  of  its 
existence  into  the  crucible,  and  it  can  do  no  more.  Love's  best 
alchymy  can  only  turn  into  affection  what  is  in  the  heart.  The 
vain,  the  proud,  the  poetical,  the  selfish,  the  weak,  can  and  do 
fling  their  vanity,  pride,  poetry,  selfishness,  and  weakness,  into  a 
first  passion  ;  but  these  are  earthly  elements,  and  there  is  an  an- 
taojonism  in  their  natures  that  is  forever  strivinoj  to  resolve  them 
back  to  their  original  earth.  But  religion  is  of  the  soul  as  well  as 
the  heart — the  mind  as  well  as  the  aS'ections — and,  when  it  min- 
gles in  love,  it  is  the  infusion  of  an  iniinortal  essence  into  an  un- 
worthy and  else  perishable  mixture. 

Edith's  religion  was  equally  without  cant,  and  without  hesitation 
or  disguise.  She  had  arrived  at  it  by  elevation  of  mind,  aided  by 
the  habit  of  never  counting  on  her  tenure  of  life  beyond  the  setting 
of  the  next  sun,  and,  with  her,  it  was  rather  an  intellectual  exalt*' 
tion  than  a  humility  of  heart.  She  thought  of  God  because  the 
subject  was  illimitable,  and  her  powerful  imagination  found  in  it 

*  ^^  La  paresa«  dans  les  feounes  est  le  presage  de  ramour.''-r-Li  S&UV1&X. 
3 


26  RELIGION  IN  ILLNESS. 


the  scope  for  wliich  she  pined.  She  talked  of  goodness,  and 
purity,  and  disinterestedness,-  because  she  found  them  easy  virtues 
with  a  frame  worn  down  with  disease,  and  she  was  removed  by 
the  sheltered  position  of  an  invalid  from  the  collision  which  tries 
so  shrewdly,  in  common  life,  the  ring  of  our  metal.  She  prayed, 
because  the  fullness  of  her  heart  was  loosed  by  her  eloquence  when 
on  her  knees,  and  she  found  that  an  indistinct  and  mystic  un- 
burthening  of  her  bosom,  even  to  the  Deity,  was  a  hush  and  a 
.relief.  The  heart  does  not  always  require  rhyme  and  reason  of 
language  and  tears. 

There  are  many  persons  of  religious  feeling,  who,  from  a  fear  of 
ridicule  or  misconception,  conduct  themselves  as  if  to  express  a 
devout  sentiment  were  a  want  of  taste  or  good-breeding.  Edith 
was  not  of  these.  Keligion  was  to  her  a  powerful  enthusiasm,  ap- 
plied without  exception  to  every  pursuit  and  affection.  She  used 
it  as  a  painter  ventures  on  a  daring  color,  or  a  musician  on  a  new 
string  in  his  instrument.  She  felt  that  she  aggrandized  botany, 
or  history,  or  friendship,  or  love,  or  what  you  will,  by  making  it  a 
stepping-stone  to  heaven,  and  she  made  as  little  mystery  of  it  as 
she  did  of  breathing  and  sleep,  and  talked  of  subjects  which  the 
serious  usually  enter  upon  with  a  suppressed  breath,  as  she  would 
comment  upon  a  poem  or  define  a  new  philosophy.  It  was  sur- 
prising what  an  impressiveness  this  threw  over  her  in  everything ; 
how  elevated. she  seemed  above  the  best  of  those  about  her  ;  and 
with  what  a  worshipping  and  half-reverent  admiration  she  inspired 
all  whom  she  did  not  utterly  neglect  or  despise.  For  myself,  my 
soul  was  drank  up  in  hers  as  the  lark  is  taken  into  the  sky,  and  I 
forgot  there  was  a  world  beneath  me  in  my  intoxication.  I 
thought  her  an  angel  unrecognized  on  earth.  I  believed  her  as 
pure  from  worldliness,  and  as  spotless  from  sin,  as  a  cherub  with 


J&:ARLI£R  DAYS.  fr 

his  breast  upon  his  lute ;  and  I  knelt  by  her  when  she  prayed,  and 
held  her  upon  my  bosom  in  her  fits  of  faintness  and  exhaustion, 
and  sat  at  her  feet,  with  my  face  in  her  hands,  listening  to  her 
wild  speculations  (often  till  the  morning  brightened  behind  the 
curtains)  with  an  utter  and  irresistible  abandonment  of  my  ex- 
istence to  hers,  which  seems  to  me,  now,  like  a  recollection  of 
another  life — it  were,  with  this  conscious  body  and  mind,  a  self- 
relinquishment  so  impossible ! 

Our  life  was  a  singular  one.  Living  in  the  midst  of  a  numer- 
ous household,  with  kind  and  cultivate(fpeople  about  us,  we  were 
as  separated  from  them  as  if  the  ring  of  Gyges  encircled  us  from 
their  sight.  Fred  wished  me  joy  of  my  giraffe,  as  he  ofi"eusively 
called  his  cousin ;  and  his  sisters,  who  were  quite  too  pretty  to 
have  been  left  out  of  my  story  so  long,  were  more  indulgent,  I 
thought,  to  the  indigenous  beaux  of  Skaneateles  than  those  abori- 
ginal specimens  had  a  right  to  expect  j  but  I  had  no  eyes,  ears, 
sense,  or  civility,  for  anything  but  Edith.  The  library  became  a 
forbidden  spot  to  all  feet  but  ours ;  we  met  at  noon  after  our  late 
vigils  and  breakfasted  together ;  a  light  sleigh  was  set  apart  for 
our  Ute-a-Ute  drives  over  the  frozen  lake,  and  the  world  seemed 
to  me  to  revolve  on  its  axle  with  a  special  reference  to  Philip 
Slingsby's  happiness.  I  wonder  whether  an  angel  out  of  heaven 
would  have  made  me  believe  that  I  should  ever  write  the  story  of 
those  passionate  hours  with  a  smile  and  a  sneer !  I  tell  thee, 
Edith  !  (for  thou  wilt  read  every  line  that  I  tfive  written,  and  feel 
it,  as  far  as  thou  canst  feel  anything),  that  I  have  read  "  Faust" 
since,  and  thought  thee  Mephistopheles  !  I  have  looked  on  thee 
since,  with  the  cheek  rosy  dark,  thy  lip  filled  with  the  blood  of 
health,  and  curled  with  thy  contempt  of  the  world  and  thy  yet 
wild  ambition  to   be  its  naaster-spirit  and  idol,  and  struck  m^ 


28  ANATOMY  OF  LOVE. 

Lreast  with  instinctive  self-questioning  if  thou  hadst  given  back 
my  soul  that  was  thine  own !  I  fear  thee,  Edith.  Thou  hast 
grown  beautiful  that  wert  so  hideous — the  wonder-wrought  mi- 
racle of  health  and  intellect,  filling  thy  veins,  and  breathing  al- 
most a  newer  shape  over  form  and  feature  ;  but  it  is  not  thy 
beauty  ;  no,  nor  thy  enthronement  in  the  admiration  of  thy  wo- 
man's world.  These  are  little  to  me  ;  for  I  saw  thy  loveliness 
from  the  first,  and  I  worshipped  thee  more  in  the  duration  of  a 
thought  than  a  hecatomb  of  these  worldlings  in  their  lifetime.  I 
fear  thy  mysterious  and  unaccountable  power  over  the  human 
soul !  I  can  scorn  thee  here,  in  another  atmosphere,  with  sufficient 
distance  between  us,  and  anatomize  the  character  that  I  alone 
have  read  truly  and  too  well,  for  the  instruction  of  the  world  (its 
ajnusement,  too,  proud  woman — thou  wilt  writhe  at  that) — but  I 
confess  to  a  natural  and  irresistible  obedience  to  the  mastery  of 
thy  spirit  over  mine.  I  would  not  willingly  again  touch  the  ra- 
dius of  thy  sphere.  I  would  come  out  of  Paradise  to  walk  alone 
with  the  devil  as  soon. 

How  little  even  the  most  instructed  women  know  the  secret  of 
this  power  !  They  make  the  mistake  of  cultivating  only  their  own 
minds.  They  think  that,  by  sc/f-elevation,  they  will  climb  up  to 
the  intellects  of  men,  and  win  them  by  seeming  their  equals. 
Shallow  philosophers !  You  never  remember,  that,  to  subdue  a 
human  being  to  your  will,  it  is  more  necessary  to  know  his  mind 
than  your  own — that,  in  conquering  a  heart,  vanity  is  the  first  out- 
post— that,  while  you  are  employing  your  wits  in  thinking  how 
most  efi"ectually  to  dazzle  him^  you  should  be  sounding  his  charac- 
ter for  its  undeveloped  powers  to  assist  him  to  dazzle  you — that 
love  is  a  reflected  light,  and,  to  be  pleased  with  others,  we  must  be 
first  pleased  with  ourselves  ? 


EARLIER  DAYS.  29 


Edith  (it  has  occurred  to  me  in  my  speculations  since)  seemed 
to  me  always  an  echo  of  myself.  She  expressed  my  thought  as  it 
sprang  into  my  brain.  I  thought  that  in  her  I  had  met  my 
double  and  counterpart,  with  the  reservation  that  I  was  a  little 
the  stronger  spirit,  and  that  in  my  mind  lay  the  material  of  the 
eloquence  that  flowed  from  her  lips — as  the  almond,  that  you  en- 
deavor to  split  equally,  leaves  the  kernel  in  the  deeper  cavity  of 
its  shell.  Whatever  the  topic,  she  seemed  using  my  thoughts, 
anticipating  my  reflections,  and,  with  an  unobtrusive  but  thrilling 
flattery,  referring  me  to  myself  for  the  truth  of  what  I  must  know 
was  but  a  suggestion  of  my  own !  0  !  Lucrezia  Borgia  !  if 
Machiavelli  had  but  practised  that  subtle  cunning  upon  thee,  thou 
wouldst  have  had  little  space  in  thy  delirious  heart  for  the  passion 
that,  in  the  history  of  crime,  has  made  thee  the  marvel  and  the 
monster. 

The  charm  of  Edith  to  most  people  was  that  she  was  no  suUi- 
mation.  Her  mind  seemed  of  any  or  no  stature.  She  was  as 
natural,  and  earnest,  and  as  satisfied  to  converse,  on  the  meanest 
subject  as  on  the  highest.  She  overpowered  nobody.  She  (ap- 
parentlyj  eclipsed  nobody.  Her  passionate  and  powerful  elo- 
quence was  only  lavished  on  the  passionate  and  powerful.  She 
never  misap-plied  herself :  and  what  a  secret  of  influence  and  supe- 
riority is  contained  in  that  single  phrase  !  We  so  hate  him  who 
out-measures  us,  as  we  stand  side  by  side  before  the  world  ! 

I  have  in  my  portfolio  several  numbers  of  a  manuscript  "  G-a- 
zette,"  with  which  the  Flemings  amused  themselves  during  the 
deep  snows  of  the  winter  in  which  I  visited  them.  It  was  con- 
tributed to,  by  everybody  in  the  house,  and  read  aloud  at  the 
breakfast  table  on  the  day  of  its  weekly  appearance  ;  and,  quite 
aj^rojpos  to  these  remarks  upon  the  universality  of  Edith's  mind, 


so  MINUTE  PHILOSOPHIES. 

there  is  in  one  of  them  an  essay  of  hers  on  what  she  calls  minute 
philosophies.  It  is  curious,  as  showing  how,  with  all  her  loftiness 
of  speculation,  she  descended  sometimes  to  the  examination  of  the 
smallest  machinery  of  enjoyment. 

"  The  principal  sources  of  everyday  happiness,"  (I  am  copying 
out  a  part  of  the  essay,  dear  reader),  "are  too  obvious  to  need  a 
place  in  a  chapter  of  breakfast-table  philosophy.  Occupation  and 
a  clear  conscience,  the  verj  truant  in  the  fields  will  tell  you,  are 
craving  necessities.  But  when  these  are  secured,  there  are 
lighter  matters,  which,  to  the  sensitive  and  educated  at  least,  are 
to  happiness  what  foliage  is  to  the  tree.  They  are  refinements 
which  add  to  the  beauty  of  life  without  diminishing  its  strength  ; 
and,  as  they  spring  only  from  a  better  use  of  our  common  gifts, 
they  are  neither  costly  nor  rare.  I  have  learned  secrets  under  the 
roof  of  a  poor  man,  which  would  add  to  the  luxury  of  the  rich. 
The  blessings  of  a  cheerful  fancy  and  a  quick  eye  come  from  na- 
ture, and  the  trailing  of  a  vine  may  develop  them  as  well  as  the 
curtaininor  of  a  kins^'s  chamber. 

"  Riding  and  driving  are  such  stimulating  pleasures,  that,  to 
talk  of  any  management  in  their  indulgence,  seems  superfluous. 
Yet  we  are,  in  motion  or  at  rest,  equally  liable  to  the  caprices  of 
feeling,  and,  perhaps,  the  gayer  the  mood  the  deeper  the  shade 
cast  on  it  by  untoward  circumstances.  The  time  of  riding  should 
never  be  regular.  It  then  becomes  a  habit,  and  habits,  though 
sometimes  comfortable,  never  amount  to  positive  pleasure.  I 
would  ride  when  nature  prompted — when  the  shower  was  past,  or 
the  air  balmy,  or  the  sky  beautiful — whenever  and  wherever  the 
significant  finger  of  Desire  pointed.  Oh  !  to  leap  into  the  saddle 
when  the  west  wind  blows  freshly,  and  gallop  off  into  its  very  eye, 
with  an  undrawn  rein,  careless  how  far  or  whither;  or,  to  spring 


EARLIER  DAYS.  31 


up  from  a  book  when  the  sun  breaks  through,  after  a  storm,  and 
drive  awaj  under  the  white  clouds,  through  light  and  shadow, 
while  the  trees  are  wet  and  the  earth  damp  and  spicy  ;  or,  in  the 
clear  sunny  afternoons  of  autumn,  with  a  pleasant  companion  on 
the  seat  beside  you,  and  the  glorious  splendor  of  the  decaying 
foliage  flushing  in  the  sunshine,  to  loiter  up  the  valley,  dreaming 
over  the  thousand  airy  castles  that  are  stirred  by  such  shifting 
beauty — these  are  pleasures  indeed,  and  such  as  he,  who  rides 
regularly  after  his  dinner,  knows  as  little  of  as  the  dray-horse  of 
the  exultation  of  the  courser. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  choice  of  a  companion.  If  he  is 
an  indifferent  acquaintance,  or  an  indiscriminate  talker,  or  has  a 
coarse  eye  for  beauty,  or  is  insensible  to  the  delicacies  of  sensa- 
tion or  thought — if  he  is  sensual,  or  stupid,  or  practical  constitu- 
tionally— he  will  never  do.  He  must  be  a  man  who  can  detect  a 
i^re  color  in  a  leaf,  or  appreciate  a  peculiar  passage  in  scenery, 
or  admire  a  grand  outline  in  a  cloud  ;  he  must  have  accurate  and 
fine  senses,  and  a  heart,  noble  at  least  by  nature,  and  subject  still 
to  her  direct  influences ;  he  must  be  a  lover  of  the  beautiful  in 
whatever  shape  it  come  ;  and,  above  all,  he  must  have  read  and 
thought  like  a  scholar,  if  not  like  a  poet.  He  will  then  ride  by 
your  side  without  crossing  your  humor  ;  if  talkative,  he  will  talk 
well,  and  if  silent,  you  are  content,  for  you  know  that  the  same 
grandeur  or  beauty,  which  has  wrought  the  silence  in  your  own 
thoughts,  has  given  a  color  to  his. 

"  There  is  much  in  the  manner  of  driving.  I  like  a  capricious 
rein — now  fast  through  a  hollow,  and  now  loiteringly  on  the  edge 
of  a  road  or  by  the  bank  of  a  river.  There  is  a  singular  delight 
in  quickening  your  speed  in  the  animation  of  a  climax,  and  in 


33  EASY  LUXURIES 

coming  down  gently  to  a  walk  with  a  digression  of  feeling,  or  a 
sudden  sadness. 

"  An  important  item  in  household  matters  is  the  management 
of  light.  A  small  room  well-lighted  is  much  more  imposing  than 
a  large  one  lighted  ill.  Cross  lights  are  painful  to  the  eye,  and 
they  destroy,  besides,  the  cool  and  picturesque  shadows  of  the  fur- 
niture and  figures.  I  would  have  a  room  always  partially  darkened  : 
there  is  a  repose  in  the  twilight  dimness  of  a  drawing-room  which 
affects  one  with  the  proper  gentleness  of  the  place  :  the  out-of-door 
humor  of  men  is  too  rude,  and  the  secluded  light  subdues  them  fitly 
as  they  enter.  I  like  curtains — heavy,  and  of  the  richest  material  : 
there  is  a  magnificence  in  large  crimson  folds  which  nothing  else 
equals,  and  the  color  gives  everything  a  beautiful  tint  as  the  light 
streams  through  them.  Plants  tastefully  arranged  are  pretty  ; 
flowers  are  always  beautiful.  I  would  have  my  own  room  like  a 
painter's — one  curtain  partly  drawn  ;  a  double  shadow  has  a  ner- 
vous look.  The  effect  of  a  proper  disposal  of  light  upon  the  feel- 
ino-s  is  by  most  people  surprisingly  neglected.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  as  an  habitual  thing  it  materially  affects  the  character  ;  the 
disposition  for  study  and  thought  is  certainly  dependent  on  it  in 
no  slight  degree.  AVhat  is  more  contemplative  than  the  twilight 
of  a  deep  alcove  in  a  library  ?  What  more  awakens  thought  than 
the  dim  interior  of  an  old  church,  with  its  massive  and  shadowy 
pillars  ? 

"  There  may  be  the  most  exquisite  luxury  in  furniture.  A 
crowded  room  has  a  look  of  comfort,  and  suspended  lamps  throw 
a  mellow  depth  into  the  features.  Descending  light  is  always  the 
most  becoming  ;  it  deepens  the  eye,  and  distributes  the  shadows  in 
the  face  judiciously.  Chairs  should  be  of  different  and  curious 
fashions,  made  to  humor  every  possible  weariness.     A  spice-lamp 


EARLIER  DAYS.  33 


should  burn  in  the  corner,  and  the  pictures  should  be  colored  of  a 
pleasant  tone,  and  the  subjects  should  be  subdued  and  dreamy. 
It  should  be  a  place  you  would  live  in  for  a  century  without  an 
uncomfortable  thought.  I  hate  a  neat  room.  A  dozen  of  the 
finest  old  authors  should  lie  about,  and  a  new  novel,  and  the  last 
new  prints.  I  rather  like  the  French  fashion  of  a  bonhonniere, 
though  that  perhaps  is  an  extravagance. 

"  There  is  a  management  of  one's  own  familiar  intercourse,  which 
is  more  neglected,  and  at  the  same  time  more  important  to  hap- 
piness, than  every  other  ;  it  is  particularly  a  pity  that  it  is  not 
oftener  understood  by  newly-married  people  ;  as  far  as  my  own 
experience  goes,  I  have  rarely  failed  to  detect,  far  too  early,  signs 
of  ill-disguised  and  disappointed  weariness.  It  was  not  the  reac- 
tion of  excitement — not  the  return  to  the  quiet  ways  of  home — 
but  a  new  manner — a  forgetful  indifference,  believing  itself  con- 
cealed, and  yet  betraying  itself  continually  by  unconscious  and 
irrepressible  symptoms.  I  believe  it  resulted  oftenest  from  the 
same  causes  :  partly  that  they  saw  each  other  too  much  ;  and 
partly  that  when  the  form  of  etiquette  was  removed,  they  forgot 
to  retain  its  invaluable  essence — an  assiduous  and  minute  disin- 
terestedness. It  seems  nonsense  to  lovers,  but  absence  is  the 
secret  of  respect,  and  therefore  of  affection.  Love  is  divine,  but 
its  flame  is  too  delicate  for  a  perpetual  household  lamp  ;  it  should 
be  burned  only  for  incense,  and  even  then  trimmed  skilfully.  It 
is  wonderful  how  a  slight  neglect,  or  a  glimpse  of  weakness,  or  a 
chance  defect  of  knowledge,  dims  its  new  glory.  Lovers,  married 
or  single,  should  have  separate  pursuits — they  should  meet  to 
respect  each  other  for  new  and  distinct  acquisitions.  It  is  the 
weakness  of  human  affections  that  they  are  founded  on  pride,  and 
waste  with  over-much  familiarity.     And  oh,  the  delight  to  meet 


34  THE  CULTURE  OF  LOVE. 


after  hours  of  absence — to  sit  down  by  the  evening  lamp,  and,  with 
a  mind  unexhausted  by  the  intercourse  of  the  day,  to  yield  to  the 
fascinating  freedom  of  conversation,  and  clothe  the  rising  thoughts 
of  affection  in  fresh  and  unhackneyed  language  !  How  richly  the 
treasures  of  the  mind  are  colored — not  doled  out,  counter  by 
counter,  as  the  visible  machinery  of  thought  coins  them,  but  heaped 
upon  the  mutual  altar  in  lavish  and  unhesitating  profusion  !  And 
how  a  bold  fancy  assumes  beauty  and  power — not  traced  up 
through  all  its  petty  springs  till  its  dignity  is  lost  by  association, 
but  flashing  full-grown  and  suddenly  on  the  sense  !  The  gifts  of 
no  one  mind  are  equal  to  the  constant  draught  of  a  lifetime  ;  and 
even  if  they  were,  there  is  no  one  taste  which  could  always  relish 
them.  It  is  an  humiliating  thought  that  immortal  mind  must  be 
husbanded  like  material  treasure  ! 

"  There  is  a  remark  of  Godwin,  which,  in  rather  too  strong 
language,  contains  a  valuable  truth  :  '  A  judicious  and  limited  vo- 
luptuousness,' he  says,  *  is  necessary  to  the  cultivation  of  the  mind, 
to  the  polishing  of  the  manners,  to  the  refinement  of  the  sentiment, 
and  to  the  development  of  the  understanding  ;  and  a  woman  de- 
ficient in  this  respect  may  be  of  use  in  the  government  of  our 
families,  but  cannot  add  to  the  enjoyment,  nor  fix  the  partiality 
of  a  man  of  taste  !'  Since  the  days  when  ^  St.  Leon'  was  written, 
the  word  by  which  the  author  expressed  his  meaning  is  grown 
perhaps  into  disrepute,  but  the  remark  is  still  one  of  keen  and  ob- 
servant discrimination.  It  refers  (at  least  so  I  take  it)  to  that 
susceptibility  to  delicate  attentions,  that  fine  sense  of  the  nameless 
and  exquisite  tendernesses  of  manner  and  thought,  which  constitute 
in  the  minds  of  its  possessors  the  deepest  undercurrent  of  life — 
the  felt  and  treasured,  but  unseen  and  inexpressible  richness  of 
affection.     It  is  rarely  found  in  the  characters  of  men,  but  it  out- 


EARLIER  DAYS.  $^ 


weighs,  when  it  is,  all  grosser  qualities — for  its  possession  implies 
a  generous  nature,  purity,  fine  affections,  and  a  heart  open  to  all 
the  sunshine  and  meaning  of  the  universe.  It  belongs  more  to 
the  nature  of  woman  ;  but,  indispensable  as  it  is  to  her  character, 
it  is  oftener  than  anything  else,  wanting.  And  without  it,  what 
is  she  .''  What  is  love,  to  a  being  of  such  dull  sense  that  she  hears 
only  its  common  and  audible  language,  and  sees  nothing  but  what 
it  brings  to  her  feet,  to  be  eaten,  and  worn,  and  looked  upon  .'' 
What  is  woman,  if  the  impassioned  language  of  the  eye,  or  the 
deepened  fullness  of  the  tone,  or  the  tenderness  of  a  slight  atten- 
tion, are  things  unnoticed  and  of  no  value  ^ — one  who  answers 
you  when  you  speak,  smiles  when  you  tell  her  she  is  grave,  assents 
barely  to  the  expression  of  your  enthusiasm,  but  has  no  dream 
beyond — no  suspicion  that  she  has  not  felt  and  reciprocated  your 
feelings  as  fully  as  you  could  expect  or  desire .''  It  is  a  matter 
too  little  looked  to.  Sensitive  and  ardent  men  too  often  marry 
with  a  blindfold  admiration  of  mere  goodness  or  loveliness.  The 
abandon  of  matrimony  soon  dissipates  the  gay  dream,  and  they 
find  themselves  suddenly  unsphered,  linked  indissolubly  with  af- 
fections strangely  different  from  their  own,  and  lavishing  their 
only  treasure  on  those  who  can  neither  appreciate  nor  return  it. 
The  after-life  of  such  men  is  a  stifling  solitude  of  feeling.  Their 
avenues  of  enjoyment  are  their  maniform  sympathies,  and,  when 
these  are  shut  up  or  neglected,  the  heart  is  dark,  and  they  have 
nothing  to  do  thenceforward  but  to  forget. 

"  There  are  many,  who,  possessed  of  the  capacity  for  the  more 
elevated  affections,  waste  and  lose  it  by  a  careless  and  often  un- 
conscious neglect.  It  is  not  a  plant  to  grow  untended.  The 
breath  of  indifference,  or  a  rude  touch,  may  destroy  forever  its 
delicate  texture.     To  drop  the  figure,  there  is  a  daily  attention  to 


36  ALBINA  M^LUSH. 


the  slight  courtesies  of  life,  and  an  artifice  in  detecting  the  jiassing 
shadows  of  feeling,  which  alone  can  preserve,  through  life,  the  first 
freshness  of  passion.  The  easy  surprises  of  pleasure,  and  earnest 
cheerfulness  of  assent  to  slight  wishes,  the  habitual  respect  to 
opinions,  the  polite  abstinence  from  personal  topics  in  the  com- 
pany of  others,  the  assiduous  and  unwavering  attention  to  her 
comfort,  at  home  and  abroad,  and,  above  all,  the  absolute  preser- 
vation, in  private,  of  those  proprieties  of  conversation  and  manner 
which  are  sacred  before  the  world — are  some  of  the  thousand 
secrets  of  that  rare  happiness  which  age  and  habit  alike  fail  to 
impair  or  diminish." 

Of  course,  a  "  periodical,"  though  issued  for  one  fireside  only, 
could  not  be  popular  with  merely  such  abstract  and  intangible 
matter  as  the  foregoing ;  and  I  must  redeem  its  character,  in  this 
its  only  history,  by  copying  one  of  its  more  practical  articles, 
furnished  from  my  own  pen  and  my  own  college  experience,  viz : 
-the  story  of 

ALBINA    McLUSH. 

I  HAVE  a  passion  for  fat  women.  If  there  is  anything  I  hate 
in  life,  it  is  what  dainty  people  call  a  sjpirituelle.  Motion — rapid 
motion — a  smart,  quick,  squirrel-like  step,  a  pert,  voluble  tone — 
in  short,  a  lively  girl — is  my  exquisite  horror !  I  would  as  lief 
have  a  diahle  petit  dancing  his  infernal  hornpipe  on  my  cerebellum 
as  to  be  in  the  room  with  one.  I  have  tried  before  now  to 
school  myself  into  liking  these  parched  peas  of  humanity.  I  have 
followed  them  with  my  eyes,  and  attended  to  their  rattle  till  I  was 
as  crazy  as  a  fly  in  a  drum.  I  have  danced  with  them,  and 
romped  with  them  in  the  country,  and  perilled  the  salvation  of 


EARLIER  DATS.  87 

iDy  "  wli'te  tights''  by  sitting  near  tliem  at  supper.  I  swear  off 
from  this  moment.  1  do.  I  won't — no — hang  me  if  ever  I  show 
another  small,  lively,  spry  woman  a  civility. 

Albina  McLush  is  divine.  She  is  like  the  description  of  the 
Persian  beauty  by  Hafiz  :  "  her  heart  is  full  of  passion  and  her 
eyes  are  full  of  sleep."  She  is  the  sister  of  Lurly  McLush,  my 
old  college  chum,  who,  as  early  as  his  sophomore  year,  was  chosen 
president  of  the  Dolce-far-nienie  Society — no  member  of  which 
was  ever  known  to  be  surprised  at  anything — (the  college  law  of 
rising  before  breakfast  excepted.)  Lurly  introduced  me  to  his 
sister  one  day,  as  he  was  lying  upon  a  heap  of  turnips,  leaning  on 
his  elbow  with  his  head  in  his  hand,  in  a  green  lane  in  the  sub- 
urbs. He  had  driven  over  a  stump,  and  been  tossed  out  of  his 
gig,  and  I  came  up  just  as  he  was  wondering  how  in  the  d — I's 
name  he  got  there  !  Albina  sat  quietly  in  the  gig,  and  when  I 
was  presented,  requested  me,  with  a  delicious  drawl,  to  say  no- 
thing about  the  adventure — "  it  would  be  so  troublesome  to  re- 
late it  to  everybody!''  I  loved  her  from  that  moment.  Miss 
McLush  was  tall,  and  her  shape,  of  its  kind,  was  perfect.  It  was 
not  a  fleshy  one,  exactly,  but  she  was  large  and  full.  Her  skin 
was  clear,  fine-grained,  and  transparent :  her  temples  and  fore- 
head perfectly  rounded  and  polished,  and  her  lips  and  chin  swell- 
ing into  a  ripe  and  tempting  pout,  like  the  cleft  of  a  bursted 
apricot.  And  then  her  eyes — large,  liquid  and  sleepy — they 
languished  beneath  their  long,  black  fringes  as  if  they  had  no 
business  with  daylight — like  two  magnificent  dreams,  surprised  in 
their  jet  embryos  by  some  bird-nesting  cherub.  Oh  !  it  was 
lovely  to  look  into  them  ! 

She  sat,  usually,  upon  tLfauteiiilj  with  her  large,  full  arm  em- 
bedded in  the  cushion,  sometimea  for  hours  without  stirring.     I 


38  ALBINA  M^XaSH. 


have  seen  tlie  wind  lift  the  masses  of  dark  hair  from  her  shoulders 
when  it  seemed  like  the  coming  to  life  of  a  marble  Hebe— she  had 
been  motionless  so  long.  She  was  a  model  for  a  goddess  of  sleep, 
as  she  sat  with  her  eyes  half  closed,  lifting  up  their  superb  lids 
slowly  as  you  spoke  to  her,  and  dropping  them  again  with  the  de- 
liberate motion  of  a  cloud,  when  she  had  murmured  out  her  sylla- 
ble of  assent.  Her  figure,  in  a  sitting  posture,  presented  a  gentle 
declivity  from  the  curve  of  her  neck  to  the  instep  of  the  small 
round  foot  lying  on  its  side  upon  the  ottoman.  I  remember  a 
fellow's  bringing  her  a  plate  of  fruit  one  evening.  He  was  one  of 
your  lively  men — a  horrid  monster,  all  right  angles  and  activity 
Having  never  been  accustomed  to  hold  her  own  plate,  she  had  not 
well  extricated  her  whole  fingers  from  her  handkerchief,  before  he 
set  it  down  in  her  lap.  As  it  began  slowly  to  slide  towaa-ds  her 
feet,  her  hand  relapsed  into  the  muslin  folds,  and  she  fixed  her  eye 
upon  it  with  a  kind  of  indolent  surprise,  drooping  her  lids  grad 
ually,  till  as  the  fruit  scattered  over  the  ottoman,  they  closed  en 
tirely,  and  a  liquid  jet  line  was  alone  visible  through  the  heavy 
lashes.  There  was  an  imperial  indifference  in  it  worthy  of 
Juno. 

Miss  McLush  rarely  walks.  When  she  does,  it  is  with  the  de- 
liberate majesty  of-  a  Dido.  Her  small,  plump  feet  melt  to  the 
ground  like  snow-flakes,  and  her  figure  sways  to  the  indolent  mo- 
tion of  her  limbs  with  a  glorious  grace  and  yieklingness  quite  inde- 
scribable. She  was  idling  slowly  up  the  Mall  one  evening  just  at 
twilight,  with  a  servant  at  a  short  distance  behind  her,  who,  to 
while  away  the  time  between  her  steps,  was  employing  himself  in 
throwing  stones  at  the  cows  feeding  upon  the  Common.  A  gentle- 
man, with  a  natural  admiration  for  her  splendid  person,  addressed 
her.      He  might  have  done  a  more  eccentj-ic  thing.      Without 


EARLIER  DAYS.  39 


troubling  herself  to  look  at  him,  she  turned  to  her  servant  and  re- 
quested him,  with  a  yawn  of  desperate  ennui j  to  knock  that  fellow 
down !  John  obeyed  his  orders  ;  and,  as  his  mistress  resumed 
her  lounge,  picked  up  a  new  handful  of  pebbles,  and  tossing  one 
at  the  nearest  cow,  loitered  lazily  after. 

Such  supreme  indolence  was  irresistible.  I  gave  in — I — who 
never  before  could  summon  energy  to  sigh — I — to  whom  a  decla- 
ration was  but  a  synonym  for  perspiration — I — who  had  only 
thought  of  love  as  a  nervous  complaint,  and  of  women  but  to  pray 
for  a  good  deliverance — I — ^yes — I — knocked  under.  xilbina 
McLush  !  Thon  wert  too  exquisitely  lazy.  Human  sensibilities 
cannot  hold  out  forever ! 

I  found  her  one  morning  sipping  her  coffee  at  twelve,  with  her 
eyes  wide  open.  She  was  just  from  the  bath,  and  her  complexion 
had  a  soft,  dewy  transparency,  like  the  cheek  of  Venus  rising 
from  the  sea.  It  was  the  hour  Lurly  had  told  me,  when  she 
would  be  at  the  trouble  of  thinking.  She  put  away  with  her  dim- 
pled forefinger,  as  I  entered,  a  cluster  of  rich  curls  that  had  fallen 
over  her  face,  and  nodded  to  me  like  a  water-lily  swaying  to  the 
wind  when  its  cup  is  full  of  rain. 

*'  Lady  Albina,"  said  I,  in  my  softest  tone,  "  how  are  you 
to-day .?" 

"  Bettina,"  said  she,  addressing  her  maid  in  a  voice  as  clouded 
and  rich  as  a  south  wind  on  an  ^olian,  "  how  am  I  to-day .?" 

The  conversation  fell  into  short  sentences.  The  dialogue  be- 
ts«ime  a  monologue.  I  entered  upon  my  declaration.  With  the 
assistance  of  Bettina,  who  supplied  her  mistress  with  cologne,  I 
kept  her  attention  alive  through  the  incipient  circumstances. 
Symptoms  were  soon  told.  I  came  to  the  avowal.  Her  hand  lay 
reposing  on  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  half  buried  in  a  musMnfoukrd 


40  ALBINA  McLUSH. 

I  took  it  up  and  pressed  the  cool,  soft  fingers  to  mj  lips — unfor- 
bidden. I  rose  and  looked  into  her  eyes  for  confirmation.  De- 
licious creature  !  she  was  asleep  ! 

I  never  have  had  courage  to  renew  the  subject.  Miss  McLush 
seems  to  have  forgotten  it  altogether.  Upon  reflection,  too,  I'm 
convinced  she  would  not  survive  the  excitement  of  the  ceremony 
unless,  indeed,  she  should  sleep  between  the  responses  and  the 
prayer.  I  am  still  devoted,  however,  and  if  there  should  come  a 
war  or  an  earthquake,  or  if  the  millenium  should  commence,  as  it 
is  expected,  in  1833,  or  if  anything  happens  that  can  keep  her 
waking  so  long,  I  shall  deliver  a  declai-ation,  abbreviated  for  me 
by  a  scholar-friend  of  mine,  which,  he  warrants,  m?y  be  articulated 
in  fifteen  minutes — without  fatigue. 

II. 

Vacation  was  over,  but  Fred  and  myself  were  still  lingering  at 
Fleming  Farm.  The  roads  were  impassable,  with  a  premature 
THAW.  Perhaps  there  is  nothing  so  peculiar  in  American  meteo- 
rology as  the  phenomenon  which  I  alone,  probably,  of  all  the  im- 
prisoned inhabitants  of  Skaneateles,  attributed  to  a  kind  and 
'  special  Providence."  Summer  had  come  back,  like  Napoleon 
from  Elba,  and  astonished  usurping  Winter  in  the  plenitude  of  ap- 
parent possession  and  security.  No  cloud  foreboded  the  change, 
as  no  alarm  preceded  the  apparition  of  ''  the  child  of  destiny." 
Wc  awoke  on  a  February  morning,  with  the  snow  lying  chin-deep 
on  the  earth,  and  it  was  June  !  The  air  was  soft  and  warm — the 
sky  was  clear,  and  of  the  milky  cerulean  of  chrysoprase — the  south 
wind  (the  same,  save  his  unperfumed  wings,  who  hp.d  crept  off  like 
a  satiated  lover  in  October,)  stole  back  suddenly  from  the  tropics, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  4^ 


and  found  his  flowery  mistress  asleep  and  insensible  to  his  kisses 
beneath  her  snowy  mantle.  The  sunset  warmed  back  from  its 
wintry  purple  to  the  golden  tints  of  heat,  the  stars  burned  with 
a  less  vitreous  sparkle,  the  meteors  slid  once  more  lambentl^i 
down  the  sky.  and  the  house-dove  sat  on  the  eaves,  washing  her 
breast  in  the  snow-water,  and  thinking  (like  a  neglected  wife  at  a 
capricious  return  of  her  truant's  tenderness)  that  the  sunshine 
would  last  for  ever  ! 

The  air  was  now  full  of  music.  The  water  trickled  away  under 
the  snow,  and,  as  you  looked  around  and  saw  no  change  or  motion 
in  the  white  carpet  of  the  earth,  it  seemed  as  if  a  myriad  of  small 
bells  were  ringing  under  ground — fairies,  perhaps,  startled  in  mid- 
revel  with  the  false  alarm  of  summer,  and  hurrying  about  with 
their  silver  anklets,  to  wake  up  the  slumbering  flowers.  The 
mountain-torrents  were  loosed,  and  rushed  down  upon  the  valleys 
like  the  Children  of  the  Mist ;  and  the  hoarse  war-cry,  swelling 
and  falling  upon  the  wind,  maintained  its  perpetual  undertone,  like 
an  accompaniment  of  bassoons  ;  and  occasionally,  in  a  sudden  lull 
of  the  breeze,  you  would  hear  the  click  of  the  undermined  snow- 
drifts dropping  upon  the  earth,  as  if  the  chorister  of  spring  were 
beating  time  to  the  reviving  anthem  of  nature. 

The  snow  sunk  perhaps  a  foot  in  a  day,  but  it  was  only  percep- 
tible to  the  eye  where  you  could  measure  its  wet  mark  against  a 
tree  from  which  it  had  fallen  away,  or  by  the  rock,  from  which  tha 
dissolving  bank  shrunk  and  separated,  as  if  rocks  and  snow  were 
as  heartless  as  ourselves,  and  threw  off  their  friends,  too,  in  their 
extremity  !  The  low-lying  lake,  meantime,  surrounded  by  melt- 
ing mountains,  received  the  abandoned  waters  upon  its  frozen  bo- 
som, and,  spreading  them  into  a  placid  and  shallow  lagoon,  sepa- 
rate by  a  crystal  plane  from  its  own  lower  depths,  gave  them  th# 


42  NATURE'S  PARALLELS. 

repose  denied  in  the  more  elevated  sphere  in  which  lay  their 
birthright.  And  thus — (oh,  how  full  is  nature  of  these  gentle 
moralities  !) — and  thus  sometimes  do  the  lowly,  whose  bosom,  like 
the  frozen  lake,  is  at  first  cold  and  unsympathetic  to  the  rich  and 
noble,  still  receive  them  in  adversity,  and — when  neighborhood  and 
dependence  have  convinced  them  that  they  are  made  of  the  same 
common  element — as  the  lake  melts  its  dividing  and  icy  plane,  and 
mingles  the  strange  waters  with  its  own,  do  they  dissolve  the  un- 
natural barrier  of  prejudice,  and  take  the  humbled  wanderer  to 
their  bosom  ! 

The  face  of  the  snow  lost  its  dazzling  whiteness  as  the  thaw 
went  on — as  disease  steals  away  the  beauty  of  those  we  love — but 
it  was  only  in  the  distance,  where  the  sun  threw  a  shadow  into  the 
irregular  pits  of  the  dissolving  surface.  Near  to  the  eye  (as  the 
dying  one  pressed  to  the  bosom),  it  was  still  of  its  original  beauty, 
unchanged  and  spotless.  And  now  you  are  tired  of  my  loitering 
speculations,  gentle  reader,  and  we  will  return  (please  Heaven, 
only  on  paper  !)  to  Edith  Linsey, 

The  roads  were  at  last  reduced  to  what  is  expressively  called, 
in  New  England,  slosh^  (in  New  York,  'posh^  but  equally  descrip- 
tive), and  Fred  received  a  hint  from  the  judge  that  the  mail  had 
arrived  in  the  usual  time,  and  his  heaux  joiors  were  at  an  end. 

A  slighter  thing  than  my  departure  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  stagger  the  tottering  spirits  of  Edith.  "We  were  sitting  at 
table  when  the  letters  came  in,  and  the  dates  were  announced  that 
proved  the  opening  of  the  roads  ;  and  I  scarce  dared  to  turn  my 
eyes  upon  the  pale  face  that  I  could  just  see  had  dropped  upon 
her  bosom.  The  next  instant  there  was  a  general  confusion,  and 
she  was  carried  lifeless  to  her  chamber. 

A  note,  scarcely  legible,  was  put  into  my  hand  in  the  course  of 


EARLIER  DAYS  43 


the  evening,  requesting  me  to  sit  up  for  her  in  the  library.  She 
would  come  to  me,  she  said,  if  she  had  strength. 

It  was  a  night  of  extraordinary  beauty.  The  full  moon  was 
high  in  the  heavens  at  midnight,  and  there  had  been  a  slight 
shower  soon  after  sunset,  which,  with  the  clearing-up  wind,  had 
frozen  thinly  into  a  most  fragile  rime,  and  glazed  everything,  open 
to  the  sky,  with  transparent  crystal.  The  distant  forest  looked 
serried  with  metallic  trees,  dazzlingly  and  unspeakably  gorgeous  ; 
and,  as  the  night-wind  stirred  through  them  and  shook  their  crys- 
tal points  in  the  moonlight,  the  aggregated  stars  of  heaven  spring- 
ing from  their  Maker's  hand  to  the  spheres  of  their  destiny,  or 
the  march  of  the  host  of  the  archangel  Michael  with  their  irra- 
diate spear-points  glittering  in  the  air,  or  the  diamond  beds  of 
central  earth  thrust  up  to  the  sun  in  some  throe  of  the  universe, 
would,  each  or  all,  have  been  well  bodied  forth  by  such  simihtude. 

It  was  an  hour  after  midnight  when  Edith  was  supported  in  by 
her  maid,  and,  choosing  her  own  position,  sunk  into  the  broad 
window-seat,  and  lay  with  her  head  on  my  bosom,  and  her  face 
turned  outward  to  the  glittering  night.  Her  eyes  had  become,  I 
thought,  unnaturally  bright,  and  she  spoke  with  an  exhausted  faint- 
ness  that  gradually  strengthened  to  a  tone  of  the  most  thrilling  and 
melodious  sweetness.    I  shall  never  get  that  music  out  of  my  brain  ' 

"Phihp!"  she  said. 

"  I  listen,  dear  Edith  !" 

"  I  am  dying." 

And  she  looked  it,  and  I  believed  her  ;  and  my  heart  sunk  to 
its  deepest  abyss  of  wretchedness  with  the  conviction. 

She  went  on  to  talk  of  death.  It  was  the  subject  that  pressed 
most  upon  her  mind,  and  she  could  scarce  fail  to  be  eloquent  on 
any  subject.     She  was  very  eloquent  on  tliis.     I  was  so  impressed 


44  SURPRISE  Al'  HEALTH. 


witli  the  manner  in  which  she  seemed  almost  to  rhapsodize  be- 
tween the  periods  of  her  faintness,  as  she  lay  in  my  arms  that 
night,  that  every  word  she  nttered  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory 
She  seemed  to  forget  my  presence,  and  to  commune  with  her  own 
thoughts  aloud. 

"  I  recollect,"  she  said,  ''  when  I  was  strong  and  well,  (years 
ago,  dear  Philip  !)  I  left  my  books,  on  a  morning  in  May,  and 
looking  up  to  find  the  course  of  the  wind,  started  off  alone  for  a 
walk  into  its  very  eye.  A  moist  steady  breeze  came  from  the 
southwest,  driving  before  it  fragments  of  the  dispersed  clouds. 
The  air  was  elastic  and  clear  ;  a  freshness  that  entered  freely  at 
every  pore  waj  coming  up,  mingled  with  the  profuse  perfume  of 
grass  and  flowers  ;  the  colors  of  the  new,  tender  foliage  were  par- 
ticularly soothing  to  an  eye  pained  with  close  attention — and  the 
just  perceptible  murmur  of  the  drops  shaken  from  the  trees,  and 
the  peculiarly  soft  rustle  of  the  wet  leaves,  made  as  much  musio 
as  an  ear  accustomed  to  the  silence  of  solitude  could  well  relish. 
Altogether,  it  was  one  of  those  rarely-tempered  days  when  every 
sense  is  satisfied,  and  the  mind  is  content  to  lie  still,  with  its  com- 
mon thoughts,  and  simply  enjoy. 

"  I  had  proceeded  perhaps  a  mile — my  forehead  held  up  to  the 
wind,  my  hair  blowing  back,  and  the  blood  glowing  in  my  cheeks 
with  the  most  vivid  flush  of  exercise  and  health — when  I  saw,  com- 
ing toward  me,  a  man  apparently  in  middle  life,  but  wasted  by 
illness  to  the  extremest  emaciation.  His  lip  was  colorless,  his 
skin  dry  and  white,  and  his  sunken  eyes  had  that  expression  of 
inquiring  earnestness  which  comes  always  with  impatient  sickness. 
He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  steadily  at  me  as  I  came  on.  My 
lips  were  open,  and  my  whole  air  must  have  been  that  of  a  person 
in  the  most  exulting  enjojmient  of  health.     I  was  just  against  him, 


EARLIER  DAYS. 

45 

gliding  i^ast  with  an  elastic  step,  when,  with  his  eye  still  fixed  on 
me,  he  half  turned,  and,  in  a  voice  of  inexpressible  meaning,  ex- 
claimed, '  Merciful  Heaven  !  hoic  well  she  is  P  I  passed  on,  with 
his  voice  still  ringing  in  my  ear.  It  haunted  me  like  a  tone  in 
the  ah'.  It  was  repeated  in  the  echo  of  my  tread — in  the  pant- 
ing of  my  heart.  I  felt  it  in  the  beating  of  the  strong  pulse  in 
my  temples.  As  if  it  were  strange  that  I  should  be  so  well  !  I 
had  never  before  realized  that  it  could  be  otherwise.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  me  that  my  strong  limbs  should  fail  me,  or  the  pure 
blood  I  felt  bounding  so  bravely  through  my  veins  could  be  reached 
and  tainted  by  disease.  How  should  it  come  }  If  I  ate,  would 
it  not  nourish  me  }  If  I  slept,  would  it  not  refresh  me  }  If  I  came 
out  in  the  cool,  free  air,  would  not  my  lungs  heave,  and  my 
muscles  spring,  and  my  face  feel  its  grateful  freshness  }  I  held 
out  my  arm,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  with  a  doubt  of  its 
strength.  I  closed  mj  hand  unconsciously,  with  a  fear  it  would 
not  obey.  I  drew  a  deep  breath,  to  feel  if  it  was  difficult  to 
breathe  ;  and  even  my  bounding  step,  that  was  elastic  then  as  a 
fawn's,  seemed  to  my  excited  imagination  already  to  have  become 
decrepit  and  feeble. 

"  I  walked  on,  and  thought  of  death.  I  had  never  before  done 
so  definitely  ;  it  was  like  a  terrible  shape  that  had  always  pursu-ad 
me  dimly,  but  which  I  had  never  before  turned  and  looked  steadily 
on.  Strange  !  that  we  can  live  so  constantly  with  that  threaten- 
inc  hand  hung  over  us,  and  not  think  of  it  always  !  Strange  !  that 
we  can  use  a  limb,  or  enter  with  interest  into  any  pursuit  of 
time,  when  we  know  that  our  continued  life  is  almost  a  daily 
miracle  ! 

"  How  difficult  it  is  to  realize  death  !  How  difficult  it  is  to  be- 
lieve tliat  the  hand  with  whose  every  vein  you  are  familiar,  will 


46  TO  REALIZE  DEATH. 


ever  lose  its  motion  and  its  warmth  ?  That  the  quick  eye,  which 
is  so  restless  now,  will  settle  and  grow  dull  ?  That  the  refined 
lip,  which  now  shrinks  so  sensitively  from  defilement,  will  not  feel 
the  earth  lying  upon  it,  and  the  tooth  of  the  feeding  worm  ?  That 
the  free  breath  will  be  choked,  and  the  forehead  be  pressed  heavily 
on  by  the  decaying  coffin,  and  the  light  and  air  of  heaven  be  shut 
quite  out ;  and  this  very  body,  warm,  and  breathing,  and  active 
as  it  is  now,  will  not  feel  uneasiness  or  pain  ?  I  could  not  help 
looking  at  my  frame,  as  these  thoughts  crowded  on  me;  and  I 
confess  I  almost  doubted  my  own  convictions — there  was  so  much 
strength  and  quickness  in  it — my  hand  opened  so  freely,  and  my 
nostrils  expanded  with  such  a  satisfied  thirst  to  the  moist  air. 
Ah  !  it  is  hard  to  believe  at  first  that  we  must  die  !  harder  still 
to  believe  and  realiz3  the  repulsive  circumstances  that  follow  that 
terrible  change  !  It  is  a  bitter  thought,  at  the  lightest.  There  is 
littlo  comfort  in  knowinp:  tlmt  the  soul  will  not  be  there — that  the 
sense  and  th^  ininJ,  that  feel  and  measure  suffering,  will  be  gone. 
The  separation  is  too  groat  a  mystery  to  satisfy  fear.  It  is  the 
body  that  we  knon\  It  is  this  material  frame  in  which  the 
affections  have  giown  up.  The  splat  is  a  mere  thought— -a 
presence  that  we  are  told  of,  but  do  not  see.  Philosophize  as  we 
will,  the  idea  of  existence  is  connected  indissolubly  with  the 
visible  body,  and  its  pleasant  and  fiimiliar  senses.  We  talk  of, 
and  believe,  the  soul's  ascent  to  its  Maker  ;  but  it  is  not  ourselves 
— it  is  not  our  own  conscious  breathing  identity  that  w-,^  said  up 
in  imagination  through  the  invisible  air.  It  is  some  phantom,  that 
is  to  issue  forth  mysteriously,  and  leave  us  gazing  on  it  in  wonder. 
We  do  not  understand,  we  cannot  realize  it. 

"  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  my  health  had  been  always  unbroken. 
Since  then,  I  have  known  disease  in  many  forms,  and  have  had, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  ^ 

of  course,  more  time  and  occasion  for  the  contemplation  of  death 
I  have  never,  till  late,  known  resignation.  With  my  utmost 
energy,  I  was  merely  able,  in  other  days,  to  look  upon  it  with 
quiet  despair  ;  as  a  terrible,  unavoidable  evil.  I  remember,  once, 
after  severe  suffering  for  weeks,  I  overheard  the  physician  telling 
my  mother  that  I  must  die,  and  from  that  moment  the  thought 
never  left  me.  A  thin  line  of  light  came  in  between  the  shutters 
of  the  south  window  \  and,  with  this  one  thought  fastened  on  my 
mind,  like  the  vulture  of  Prometheus,  I  lay  and  watched  it,  day 
after  day,  as  it  passed  with  its  imperceptible  progress  over  the 
folds  of  my  curtains.  The  last  faint  gleam  of  sunset  never  faded 
from  its  damask  edge,  without  an  inexpressible  sinking  of  my 
heart,  and  a  belief  that  I  should  see  its  pleasant  light  no  more.  I 
turned  from  the  window  when  even  imagination  could  find  the 
daylight  no  longer  there,  and  felt  my  pulse  and  lifted  my  head  to 
try  my  remaining  strength.  And  then  every  object,  yes,  even 
the  meanest,  grew  unutterably  dear  to  me ;  my  pillow,  and  the 
cup  with  which  my  lips  were  moistened,  and  the  cooling  amber 
which  I  had  held  in  my  hand,  and  pressed  to  my  burning  lips 
when  the  fever  was  on  me — everything  that  was  connected  with 
life,  and  that  would  remain  among  the  living  when  I  was  gone. 

"  It  is  strange,  but,  with  all  this  clinging  to  the  world,  my  affec- 
tion for  the  li-vang  decreased  sensibly.  I  grew  selfish  in  my  weak- 
ness. I  could  not  bear  that  they  should  go  from  my  chamber  into 
the  fresh  air,  and  have  no  fear  of  sickness  and  no  pain.  It  seemed 
unfeeling  that  they  did  not  stay  and  breathe  the  close  atmosphere 
of  my  room — at  least  till  I  was  dead.  How  could  they  walk 
round  so  carelessly,  and  look  on  a  fellow-creature  dying  helplessly 
and  unwillingly,  and  never  shed  a  tear !  And  then  the  passing 
courtesies  exchanged  with  the  family  at  the  door,  and  the  quick- 


THE  FEELINGS  OF  THE  SICK. 


ened  step  on  the  sidewalk,  and  the  wandering  looks  about  my 
room,  even  while  1  was  answering  with  my  difficult  breath  their 
cold  inquiries!  There  was  an  inhuman  carelessness  in  all  thii 
that  stung  me  to  the  soul. 

"  I  craved  sympathy  as  I  did  life ;  and  yet  I  doubted  it  all 
There  .was  not  a  word  spoken,  by  the  friends  who  were  admitted  t« 
see  me,  that  I  did  not  ponder  over  when  they  were  gone,  and  al- 
ways with  an  impatient  dissatisfaction.  The  tone,  and  the  man- 
ner, and  the  expression  of  face,  all  seemed  forced  ;  and  often,  in 
my  earlier  sickness,  when  I  had  pondered  for  hours  on  the  ex- 
pressed sympathy  of  some  one  I  had  loved,  the  sense  of  utter, 
helplessness,  which  crowded  on  me  with  my  conviction  of  their 
insincerity,  quite  overcame  me.  I  have  lain,  night  after  night, 
and  looked  at  my  indifferent  watchers:  and  oh,  how  I  hated  them 
for  their  careless  ease,  and  their  snatched  moments  of  repose  !  I 
could  scarce  keep  from  dashing  aside  the  cup  they  came  to  give 
me  so  sluggishly. 

"  It  is  singular  that,  with  all  our  experience  of  sickness,  we 
do  not  attend  more  to  these  slight  circumstances.  It  can  scarce 
be  conceived  how  an  ill-managed  light,  or  a  suppressed  whisper- 
ing, or  a  careless  change  of  attitude,  in  the  presence  of  one  whose 
senses  are  so  sharpened,  and  whose  mind  is  so  sensitive  as  a  sick 
person's,  irritate  and  annoy.  And,  perhaps,  more  than  these  to 
bear,  is  the  affectedly  subdued  tone  of  condolence.  I  remember 
nothing  which  I  endured  so  impatiently. 

"  Annoyances  like  these,  however,  scarcely  diverted  for  a  mo- 
ment the  one  great  thought  of  death.  It  became  at  last  familiar, 
but,  if  possible,  more  dreadfully  horrible  from  that  very  fact.  It 
was  giving  it  a  new  character.  I  realized  it  more.  The  minute 
circumstances  became  nearer  and  more  real — I  tried  the  position 


EARLIER  PAYS.  49 


in  which  I  should  lie  in  my  coffin — I  lay,  with  my  arms  to  my 
side,  and  my  feet  together,  and,  with  the  cold  sweat  standing 
in  large  drops  on  my  lip,  composed  my  features  into  a  forced  ex- 
pression of  tranquillity. 

"  I  awoke  on  the  second  morning  after  the  hope  of  my  recovery 
had  been  abandoned.  There  was  a  narrow  sunbeam  lying  in  a 
clear  crimson  line  across  the  curtain,  and  I  lay  and  watched  the 
specks  of  lint  sailing  through  it,  like  silver-winged  insects,  and 
the  thin  dust,  quivering  and  disappearing  on  its  definite  limit, 
in  a  dream  of  wonder.  I  had  thought  not  to  see  another  sun,  and 
my  mind  was  still  fresh  with  the  expectation  of  an  immediate 
change  ;  I  could  not  believe  that  I  was  alive.  Ths  dizzy  throb  in 
my  temples  was  done  ;  my  limbs  felt  cool  and  refreshed  ;  my 
mind  had  that  feeling  of  transparency  which  is  common  after 
healthful  and  sweet  sleep  ;  and  an  indefinite  sensation  of  pleasure 
trembled  in  every  nerve.  I  thought  that  this  might  be  death,  and 
that,  with  this  exquisite  feeling  of  repose,  I  was  to  linger  thus 
consciously  with  the  body  till  the  last  day  ;  and  I  dwelt  on  it 
pleasantly,  with  my  delicious  freedom  from  pain.  I  felt  no  regret 
for  life — none  for  a  friend  even  :  I  Was  willing — quite  willing — to 
lie  thus  for  ages.  Presently  the  physician  entered  ;  he  came  and 
laid  his  fingers  on  my  pulse,  and  his  face  brightened.  '  You  will 
get  well,'  he  said,  and  I  heard  it  almost  without  emotion.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  the  love  of  life  returned  ;  and,  as  I  realized  it  fully, 
and  all  the  thousand  cords  which  bound  me  to  it  vibrated  once 
more,  the  tears  came  thickly  to  my  eyes,  and  a  crowd  of  delightful 
thoughts  pressed  cheerfully  and  glowingly  upcm  me.  No  language 
can  do  justice  to  the  pleasure  of  convalescence  from  extreme  sick- 
ness. The  first  step  upon  the  living  grass — the  first  breath  of 
free  air — the  first  unsuppressed  salutation  of  a  fiiend — ^ray  faint- 
3 


60  ILLNESS,  FOETRY  AND  LOVE. 


ing  heart,  dear  Philip,  rallies  and  quickens  even  now  with  the 
recollection." 

I  have  thrown  into  a  continuous  strain  what  was  murmured  to 
me  between  pauses  of  faintness,  and  with  difficulty  of  breath  that 
seemed  overpowered  only  by  the  mastery  of  the  eloquent  spirit 
apparently  trembling  on  its  departure.  I  believed  Edith  Linsey 
would  die  that  night ;  I  believed  myself  listening  to  words  spoken 
almost  from  heaven  ;  and  if  I  have  wearied  you,  dear  reader,  with 
what  must  be  more  interesting  to  me  than  to  you,  it  is  because 
every  syllable  was  burnt  like  enamel  into  my  soul,  in  my  bound- 
less reverence  and  love. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  and  she  still  lay  breathing  painfully  in  my 
arms.  I  had  thrown  up  the  window,  and  the  soft  south  wind,  stirring 
gently  among  the  tinkling  icicles  of  the  trees,  came  in,  warm  and 
genial,  and  she  leaned  over  to  inhale  it,  as  if  it  came  from  the 
source  of  life.  The  stars  burned  gloriously  in  the  heavens  ;  and,  in 
a  respite  of  her  pain,  she  laid  back  her  head,  and  gazed  up  at  them 
with  an  inarticulate  motion  of  her  lips,  and  eyes  so  unnaturally 
kindled,  that  I  thought  reason  had  abandoned  her. 

"  How  beautiful  are  the  stars  to-night,  Edith !"  I  said,  with 
half  a  fear  that  she  would  answer  me  in  madness. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  putting  my  hand  (that  pressed  her  closer, 
involuntarily,  to  my  bosom)  first  to  her  lips — ^'  Yes  ;  and,  beautiful 
as  they  are,  they  are  all  accurately  numbered  and  governed,  and, 
just  as  they  burn  now,  have  they  burned  since  the  creation,  never 
*  faint  in  their  watches,'  and  never  absent  from  their  place.  How 
glorious  they  are  !  How  thrilling  it  is  to  see  them  stand  with  such 
a  constant  silence  in  the  sky,  unsteadied  and  unsupported,  obey- 
ing the  ^reat  law  of  their  IMaker  !  What  pure  and  silvery  light  it 
is  !     How  steadily  it   pours  fvoui   those  small  fountains,  giving 


EARLIER  DAYS.  61 


every  spot  of  earth  its  due  portion  !  The  hovel  and  the  palace  are 
shone  upon  equally,  and  the  shepherd  gets  as  broad  a  beam  as  the 
king,  and  these  few  rays  that  are  now  streaming  into  my  feverish 
eyes  were  meant  and  lavished  only  for  me  !  I  have  often  thought 
— has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  dear  Philip  ? — how  ungrateful  wo 
are,  to  call  ourselves  poor,  when  there  is  so  much  that  no  poverty 
can  take  away  !  Clusters  of  silver  rays  from  every  star  in  these 
heavens  are  7ninc.  Every  breeze  that  breaks  on  my  forehead  was 
sent  for  my  refreshment.  Every  tinkle  and  ray  from  those  stir- 
ring and  glistening  icicles,  and  the  invigorating  freshness  of  this 
unseasonable  and  delicious  wind,  and  moonlight,  and  sunshine, 
and  the  glory  of  the  planets,  are  all  gifts  that  poverty  could  not 
take  away  ;  it  is  not  often  that  I  forget  these  treasures  ;  for  I  have 
loved  nature,  and  the  skies  of  night  and  day,  in  all  their  changes, 
from  my  childhood,  and  they  have  been  unspeakably  dear  to  me  ; 
for,  in  them,  I  see  the  evidence  of  an  Almighty  Maker,  and,  in  the 
excessive  beauty  of  the  stars  and  the  unfading  and  equal  splen- 
dor of  their  steadfast  fires,  I  see  glimpses  of  an  immortal  life,  and 
find  an  answer  to  the  eternal  questioning  within  me  ! 

"  Three !  The  village  clock  reaches  us  to-night.  Nay,  the 
wind  can  not  harm  me  now.  Turn  me  more  to  the  window,  for  I 
would  look  nearer  upon  the  stars  :  it  is  the  last  time — I  am  sure 
of  it — the  very  last !  Yet  to-morrow  night  those  stars  will  all  be 
there — not  one  missing  from  the  sky,  nor  shining  one  ray  the  less 
because  I  am  dead  !  It  is  strange  that  this  thought  should  be  so 
bitter — strange  that  the  companionship  should  be  so  close  between 
our  earthly  affections  and  those  spiritual  worlds — and  stranger  yet, 
that,  satisfied  as  we  must  be  that  we  shall  know  them  nearer  and 
better  when  released  from  our  flesh,  we  still  cling  so  fondly  to  our 
earthly  and  imperfect  vision.     I  feel,  Philip,  that  I  shall  traverse 


52  VERSES  IN  ABSENCE. 

hereafter  every  star  in  those  bright  heavens.  If  the  course  of 
that  career  of  knowledge,  which  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  will  be  the 
reward  of  the  blessed  to  run,  be  detarmined  in  any  degree  by  the 
strong  desires  that  yearn  so  sickeningly  within  us,  I  see  the  thou- 
sand gates  of  my  future  heaven  shining  at  this  instant  above  me. 
There  they  are  !  the  clustering  Pleiades,  with  ^  their  sweet  in- 
fluences ;'  and  the  morning  star,  melting  into  the  east  with  its 
transcendent  lambency  and  whiteness  ;  and  the  broad  galaxy,  with 
its  myriads  of  bright  spheres,  dissolving  into  each  other's  light, 
and  belting  the  heavens  like  a  girdle.  I  shall  see  them  all !  I 
shall  know  them  and  their  inhabitants  as  the  angels  of  God  know 
them  ;  the  mystery  of  their  order,  and  the  secret  of  their  wonder- 
ful harmony,  and  the  duration  of  their  appointed  courses — all  will 
be  made  clear  !" 

I  have  trespassed  again,  most  indulgent  reader,  on  the  limits  of 
these  Procrustean  papers.  I  must  defer  the  "  change"  that 
"  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream"  till  another  mood  and  time. 
Meanwhile,  you  may  consider  Edith,  if  you  like,  the  true  heart 
she  thought  herself,  (and  I  thought  her,)  during  her  nine  deaths 
in  the  library ;  and  you  will  have  leisure  to  imagine  the  three 
years  over  which  we  shall  skip  with  this  finale^  during  which  I 
made  a  journey  to  the  north,  and  danced  out  a  winter  in  John  Bull's 
territories  at  Quebec — a  circumstance  I  allude  to,  no  less  to  record 
the  hospitalities  of  the  garrison  of  that  time,  (this  was  in  '27 — ^were 
you  there  t)  than  to  pluck  forth,  from  Time's  hindermost  wallet, 
a  modest  copy  of  verses  I  addressed  thence  to  Edith.  She  sent 
them  back  to  me  considerably  mended  ;  but  I  give  you  the 
original  draught,  scorning  her  finger  in  my  poesies  : — 


EARLIER  DAYS  53 


TO    EDITH,    FROM    THE    NORTIL 

As,  gazing  on  the  Pleiades, 

We  count  each  fair  and  starry  one, 
Yet  wander  from  the  light  of  these 

To  muse  upon  the  '  Pleiad  gone  ;' — 
As,  bending  o'er  fresh-gathered  flowers, 

The  rose's  most  enchanting  hue 
Reminds  us  but  of  other  hours. 

Whose  roses  were  all  lovely,  too ; — 
So,  dearest,  when  I  rove  among 

The  bright  ones  of  this  northern  sky, 
And  mark  the  smile,  and  list  the  song, 

And  watch  the  dancers  gliding  by — 
The  fairer  still  they  seem  to  be. 

The  more  it  stirs  a  thought  of  thee. 

The  sad,  sweet  bells  of  twilight  chime, 

Of  many  hearts  may  touch  but  one. 
And  so  this  seeming  careless  rhyme 

Will  whisper  to  thy  heart  alone, 
I  give  it  to  the  winds.     The  bird, 

Let  loose,  to  his  far  nest  will  flee. 
And  love,  though  breathed  but  on  a  word, 

Will  find  thee,  over  land  and  sea. 
Though  clouds  across  the  sky  have  drivpp., 

We  trust  the  star  at  last  will  shine; 
And,  like  the  very  light  of  heaven. 

I  trust  thy  love — trust  thou  in  mine. 


64  A  DIGRESSION. 


PART  III. 


A    DIGRESSION. 


"  Boy.  "Will  you  not  sleep,  sir  ? 

Knight.  Fling  the  window  up  ! 

I'll  look  upon  the  stars.    Where  twinkle  now 
The  Pleiades  ? 

£oy.  Here,  master ! 

Knight.  Throw  me  now 

My  cloak  upon  my  shoulders,  and  good  night ! 
I  have  no  mind  to  sleep  t        *        ♦       • 
»       ♦       ♦        *        She  bade  me  look 
Upon  this  baud  of  stars  when  other  eyes 
Beamed  on  me  brightly,  and  remember  her 
By  the  lost  Pleiad, 

Boy.  Are  you  well,  sir? 

Knight.  Boy ! 

Love  you  the  stars  ? 

Boy  When  they  first  spring  at  eve 

Better  than  near  to  morning. 

Knight.  Fickle  child  ! 

Are  they  more  fair  in  twilight  ? 

Boy.  Master,  no  ! 

Brighter,  as  night  wears  on — but  I  forget 
Their  beauty,  looking  on  them  long  V^ 

"  Sir  Fabian,"  an  unpublished  Poem. 

It  was  a  September  night  at  the  university.  On  the  morrow  I 
was  to  appear  upon  the  stage  as  the  winner  of  the  first  honors  of 
my  year.  I  was  the  envy — the  admiration — in  some  degree  the 
wonder,  of  the  collegiate  town  in  which  the  university  stands  ;  for 
I  had  commenced  my  career  as  the  idlest  and  most  riotous  of 
freshmen.  What  it  was  that  had  suddenly  made  me  enamored  of  my 
chambers  and  my  books — tnat  nad  saddened  my  manners  and 
softened  my  voice — that  had  given  me  a  disgust  to  champagne  and 
my  old  allies,  in  favor  of  cold  water  and  the  Platonists — that,  in 


EARLIER  DAYS.  55 


short,  had  metamorphosed,  as  Bob  Wilding  would  have  said,  a 
gentleman-like  rake  and  vaurien  into  so  dull  a  thing  as  an  exem- 
plary academician — was  past  the  divining  of  most  of  my  acquaint- 
ances. Oh,  once-loved  Edith  !  hast  thou  any  inkling,  in  thy 
downward  metempsychosis,  of  the  philosophy  of  this  marvel  ? 

If  you  were  to  set  a  poet  to  make  a  town,  with  carte  hlavche  as 
to  trees,  gardens,  and  green  blinds,  he  would  probably  turn  out 
very  much  such  a  place  as  New  Haven.  (Supposing  your  edu- 
cation in  geography  to  have  been  neglected,  dear  reader,  this  is 
the  second  capital  of  Connecticut,  a  half-rural,  half-metropolitan 
town,  lying  between  a  precipice  that  makes  the  fag-end  of  the 
Grreen  Mountains  and  a  handsome  bay  in  Long-Island  Sound.) 
The  first  thought  of  the  inventor  of  New  Haven  was  to  lay  out  the 
streets  in  parallelograms,  and  the  second  was  to  plant  them,  from 
suburb  to  water-side,  with  the  magnificent  elms  of  the  country. 
The  result  is,  that,  at  the  end  of  fifty  years,  the  town  is  buried  in 
leaves.  If  it  were  not  for  the  spires  of  the  churches,  a  bird,  flying 
over  on  his  autumn  voyage  to  the  Floridas,  would  never  mention 
having  seen  it  in  his  travels.  It  is  a  glorious  tree,  the  elm — and 
those  of  the  place  I  speak  of  are  famous,  even  in  our  land  of  trees, 
for  their  surprising  size  and  beauty.  With  the  curve  of  their 
stems  in  the  sky,  the  long  weepers  of  their  outer  and  lower  branches 
drop  into  the  street,  fanning  your  face  as  you  pass  under  with 
their  geranium-like  leaves ;  and  close  overhead,  interwoven  like 
*he  trellis  of  a  vine,  they  break  up  the  light  of  the  sky  into  golden 
flecks,  and  make  you,  of  the  common  highway,  a  bower  of  the 
most  approved  secludedness  and  beauty.  The  houses  are  some- 
thing between  an  Italian  palace  and  an  English  cottage — ^built  of 
wood,  but,  in  the  dim  light  of  th^se  overshadowing  trees,  as  fair 
to  the  eye  as  marble,  with  their  triennial  coats  of  paint ;  and  each 


56  A  CHARMING  TOWN. 


stands  in  the  midst  of  its  own  encircling  grass-plot,  half  buried  in 
vines  and  flowers,  and  facing  outwards  from  a  cluster  of  gardens 
divided  by  slender  palings,  and  filling  up,  with  fruit-trees  and 
summer-houses,  the  square  on  whose  limit  it  stands.  Then,  like 
the  vari-colored  parallelograms  upon  a  chessboard,  green  openings 
are  left  throughout  the  town,  fiinged  with  triple  and  interweaving 
elm-rows,  the  long  and  weeping  branches  sweeping  downward  to 
the  grass,  and,  with  their  enclosing  shadows,  keeping  moist  and 
cool  the  road  they  overhang  ;  and  fair  forms  (it  is  the  garden  of 
American  beauty — New  Haven)  flit  about  in  the  green  light  in 
primitive  security  and  freedom,  and  you  would  think  the  place,  if 
you  alit  upon  it  in  a  summer's  evening — what  it  seems  to  me  now 
in  memory,  and  what  I  have  made  it  in  this  Rosa-Matilda  de- 
scription— a  scene  from  Boccacio,  or  a  vision  from  long-lost  Arcady. 
New  Haven  may  have  eight  thousand  inhabitants.  Its  steamers 
run  to  New  York  in  six  hours  (or  did,  in  my  time — I  have  ceased 
to  be  astonished  on  that  subject,  and  should  not  wonder  if  they 
did  it  soon  in  OTm — a  trifle  of  seventy  miles  up  the  Sound),  and  the 
ladies  go  up  in  the  morning  for  a  yard  of  bobbin,  and  return  at 
night,  and  the  gentlemen  the  same  for  a  stroll  in  Broadway ;  and 
it  is  to  this  circumstance  that,  while  it  preserves  its  rural  exterior, 
it  is  a  very  metropolitan  place  in  the  character  of  its  society.  The 
Amaryllis  of  the  pretty  cottage  you  admire  wears  tb.a  fashion 
twenty  days  from  Paris,  and  her  shepherd  has  a  coat  from  Nugee, 
the  divine  peculiarity  of  which  is  not  yet  suspected  east  of  Bond 
street ;  and,  in  the  newspaper,  hanging  out  of  the  window,  there  is 
news,  red-hot  with  the  velocity  of  its  arrival,  from  Russia  and  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  from  the  sources  of  the  Mississippi  and  the  brain 
of  Monsieur  Heibault.  Distance  is  an  imaginary  quantity,  and 
Time,  that  used  to  give  everything  the  go-by,  has  come  to  a  stand- 


EARLIER  DAYS.  Qf 

Btill,  in  Lis  astonishment.  There  will  be  a  proposition  in  Congress, 
ere  long,  to  do  without  him  altogether — every  new  thing  "  saves 
time"  so  marvellously. 

Bright  as  seems  to  me  this  seat  of  my  Alma  Mater,  however, 
and  gayly  as  I  describe  it,  it  is  to  me,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  a 
picture  of  memory  glazed  and  put  away  ;  if  I  see  it  ever  again, 
it  will  be  but  to  walk  through  its  embowered  streets  by  a  midnight 
moon.  It  is  vain  and  heart-breaking  to  go  back,  after  absence,  to 
any  spot  of  earth  of  which  the  interest  was  the  human  love  whose 
home  and  cradle  it  had  been.  But  there  is  a  period  in  our  lives 
when  the  heart  fuses  and  compounds  with  the  things  about  it,  and 
the  close  enamel  with  which  it  overruns  and  binds,  in  the  affections, 
and  which  hardens  in  the  lapse  of  years,  till  the  immortal  germ 
within  is  not  more  durable  and  unwasting,  warms  never  again,  nor 
softens  ;  and  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  mournful  and  unavailing 
as  to  return  to  the  scenes  which  are  unchanged,  and  look  to  return 
to  ourselves  and  others  as  we  were  when  we  thus  knew  them. 

Yet  we  think  (I  judge  you  by  my  own  soul,  gentle  reader !)  that 
it  is  others — not  we — who  are  changed  !  We  meet  the  friend 
that  we  loved  in  our  youth,  and  it  is  ever  he  who  is  cold  and  al- 
tered !  We  take  the  hand  that  we  bent  over  with  our  passionate 
kisses  in  boyhood,  and  our  raining  tears  when  we  last  parted,  and 
it  is  ever  hers  that  returns  not  the  pressure,  and  her  eyes,"  and 
not  ours — oh,  not  ours  ! — that  look  back  the  moistened  and  once 
familiar  regard  with  a  dry  lid  and  a  gaze  of  stone  !  Oh,  God  !  it 
is  ever  he — the  friend  you  have  worshipped — ^for  whom  you  would 
have  died — who  gives  you  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and  greets  you 
with  a  phrase  of  fashion,  when  you  would  rush  into  his  bosom,  and 
break  your  heart  with  weeping  out  the  imprisoned  tenderness  of 
years  !  I  could  carve  out  the  heart  from  my  bosom,  and  fiing 
8* 


^  AFTER  LONG  PARTING.^ 

it  with  a  malison  into  the  sea,  when  I  think  how  utterly  ?nJ  wors"» 
than  useless  it  is,  in  this  world  of  mocking  names  !  Yet  "  love'* 
and  "  friendship"  are  words  that  read  well.  You  could  scare© 
spare  them  in  poetry. 

II. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  moonlight  night  of  unparalleled  splen- 
dor. The  morrow  was  the  college  anniversary — the  day  of  ths 
departure  of  the  senior  class — and  the  town,  which  is,  as  it  were, 
a  part  of  the  university,  was  in  the  usual  tumult  of  the  gayest  and 
saddest  evening  of  the  year.  The  night  was  warm,  and  the  houses j 
of  which  the  drawing-rooms  are  all  on  a  level  with  the  gardens  in 
the  rear,  and  through  which  a  long  hall  stretches  like  a  ball-room, 
were  thrown  open,  doors  and  windows,  and  the  thousand  students 
of  the  university,  and  the  crowds  of  their  friends,  and  the  hosts  of 
strangers  drawn  to  the  place  at  this  season  by  the  annual  festivities, 
and  the  families,  every  one  with  a  troop  of  daughters,  (as  the 
leaves  on  our  trees,  compared  with  those  of  old  countries — three 
to  one — so  are  our  sons  and  daughters,)  were  all  sitting  without 
lamps  in  the  moon-lit  rooms,  or  strolling  together,  lovers  and 
friends,  in  the  fragrant  gardens,  or  looking  out  upon  the  street, 
returning  the  greetings  of  the  passers-by,  or,  with  heads  uncovered, 
pacing  backward  and  forward  beneath  the  elms  before  the  door — 
the  whole  scene  one  that  the  angels  in  heaven  might  make  a  holy 
day  to  see. 

There  were  a  hundred  of  my  fellow-seniors — ^young  men  of  from 
eighteen  to  twenty-four — every  one  of  whom  was  passing  the  last 
erening,  of  the  four  most  impressible  and  attaching  years  of  his 
life,  with  the  family  in  which  he  had  been  most  intimate,  in  a  town 
where  refinement  and  education  had  done  their  utmost  upon  tha 


EARLIER  DAYS.  59 


poeiety,  and  which  was  renowned  thionghout  America  for  the  ex- 
traordinary beauty  of  its  women.  They  had  come  from  every 
State  in  the  Union,  and  the  Georgian  and  the  Vermontese,  the 
Kentuckian  and  the  Virginian,  were  to  start  alike  on  the  morrow- 
night  with  a  lengthening  chain  for  home,  each  bearing  away  the 
hearts  he  had  attached  to  him,  (one  or  more  !)  and  leaving  his 
own,  till,  like  the  magnetized  needle,  it  should  drop  away  with  the 
weakened  attraction  ;  and  there  was  probably  but  one  that  night 
in  the  departing  troop  who  was  not  whispering,  in  some  throbbing 
ear,  the  passionate,  but  vain  and  mocking  avowal  of  fidelity  in  love  ! 
And  yet  I  had  had  my  attachments,  too  ;  and  there  wa.s  scarce  a 
house  in  that  leafy  and  murmuring  paradise  of  friendship  and  trees, 
that  would  not  have  hailed  me  with  acclamation  had  I  entered  the 
door  ;  and  I  make  this  record  of  kindness  and  hospitality,  (unfor- 
gctten  after  busy  years  of  vicissitude  and  travel,)  with  the  hope 
that  there  may  yet  live  some  memory  as  constant  as  mine,  and 
that  some  eye  will  read  it  with  a  warmth  in  its  lid,  and  some  lip 
— some  oTie  at  least — murmur,  "  I  remember  him  !"  There  are 
trees  in  that  town  whose  drooping  leaves  I  could  press  to  my  lips 
with  an  affection  as  passionate  as  if  they  were  human,  though  the 
lips  and  voices  that  have  endeared  them  to  me  are  as  changed  as 
the  foliage  upon  the  branch,  and  would  recognise  my  love  as 
coldly. 

There  was  one,  I  say,  who  walked  the  thronged  pavement  alone 
that  night,  or  but  with  such  company  as  Uhland's  ;*  yet  the  heart 
^  Almost  the  sweetest  thing  I  remember  is  the  German  poet's  thought 
when  crossing  the  ferry  to  his  wife  and  child : — 

"  Take,  O  boatman  !  thrice  thy  fee, 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly  , 

For,  invisibly  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  mt.** 


60  FOR  WHOM  WRITE  WE? 


of  that  solitary  senior  was  far  from  lonely.  The  palm  of  years  of 
ambition  was  in  his  grasp — the  reward  of  daily  self-denial  and 
midnight  watching — the  prize  of  a  straining  mind  and  a  yearning 
desire  ;  and  there  was  not  one  of  the  many  who  spoke  of  him  that 
night  in  those  crowded  rooms,  either  to  rejoice  in  his  success  or 
to  wonder  at  its  attainment,  who  had  the  shadow  of  an  idea  what 
spirit  sat  uppermost  in  his  bosom.  Oh  !  how  common  is  this  ig- 
norance of  human  motives  !  How  distant,  and  slight,  and  unsus- 
pected, are  the  springs  often  of  the  most  desperate  achievement ! 
How  little  the  world  knows  for  what  the  poet  writes,  the  scholar 
toils,  the  politician  sells  his  soul,  and  the  soldier  perils  his  life  ! 
And  how  insignificant  and  unequal  to  the  result  would  seem  these 
invisible  wires,  could  they  be  traced  back  from  the  hearts  whose 
innermost  resource  and  faculty  they  have  waked  and  exhausted  ! 
It  is  a  startling  thing  to  question  even  your  own  soul  for  its  motive. 
Ay,  even  in  trifles.  Ten  to  one  you  are  surprised  at  the  answer. 
I  have  asked  myself,  while  writing  this  sentence,  whose  eye  it  is 
most  meant  to  please  ;  and,  as  I  live,  the  face  that  is  conjured  up 
at  my  bidding  is  one  of  whom  I  have  not  had  a  definite  thought 
for  years.  I  would  lay  my  life  she  thinks  at  this  instant  I  have 
forgotten  her  very  name.  Yet  I  know  she  will  read  this  page  with 
an  interest  no  other  could  awaken,  striving  to  trace  in  it  the 
changes  that  have  come  over  me  since  we  parted.  I  know,  (and 
I  knew  then^  though  we  never  exchanged  a  word  save  in  friendship,) 
that  she  devoted  her  innermost  soul,  when  we  strayed  together  by 
that  wild  river  in  the  West,  (dost  thou  remember  it,  dear  friend  ? 
for  now  I  speak  to  thee  !)  to  the  study  of  a  mind  and  character 
of  which  she  thought  better  than  the  world  or  their  possessor  ; 
and  I  know — oh,  how  wdl  I  know  ! — that,  with  husband  and  child- 


EARLIER   DAYS.  61 


ren  around  her,  whom  she  loves  and  to  whom  she  is  devoted,  the 
memory  of  me  is  laid  away  in  her  heart,  like  a  fond,  but  incom- 
plete dream,  of  what  once  seemed  possible — the  feeling  with  which 
the  mother  looks  on  her  witless  boy,  and  loves  him  more  for  what 
he  might  have  been,  than  his  brothers  for  what  they  are  ! 

I  scarce  know  what  thread  I  dropped  to  take  up  this  improvista 
digression  (for,  like  "  Opportunity  and  the  Hours,"  I  "  never 
look  back  ;"*)  but  let  us  return  to  the  shadow  of  the  thousand 
elms  of  New  Haven. 

The  Gascon  thought  his  own  thunder  and  lightning  superior  to 
that  of  other  countries,  but  I  must  run  the  hazard  of  your  in- 
credulity as  well,  in  preferring  an  American  moon.  In  Greece 
and  Asia  Minor,  perhaps  (ragione — she  was  first  worshipped 
there),  Cytheris  shines  as  brightly ;  but  the  Ephesian  of  Con- 
necticut sees  the  flaws  upon  the  pearly  buckler  of  the  goddess,  as 
does  the  habitant  of  no  other  clime.  His  eye  lies  close  to  the 
moon.  There  is  no  film,  and  no  visible  beam,  in  the  clarified 
atmosphere.  Her  light  is  less  an  emanation  than  a  presence — 
the  difference  between  the  water  in  a  thunder-shower  and  the 
depths  of  the  sea.  The  moon  struggles  to  you  in  England — she 
is  all  about  you,  like  an  element  of  the  air,  in  America. 

The  night  was  breathless,  and  the  fragmented  light  lay  on  the 
pavement  in  motionless  stars,  as  clear  and  definite  in  their  edges 
as  if  the  "  patines  of  bright  gold"  had  dropped  through  the  trees, 
ind  lay  glittering  beneath  my  feet.  There  was  a  kind  of  dark- 
ness visible  in  the  streets,  overshadowed  as  they  were  by  the 
massy  and  leaf-burthened  elms,  and,  as  I  looked  through  the 
houses,  standing  in  obscurity  myself,  the  gardens  seemed  full  of 
*  Walter  Savage  Landor. 


e2  TIME  AND  PLACE  OF  HAPPINESS. 


dayliglit  — the  unobstructed  moon  poured  with  such  a  flood  of 
radiance  on  the  flowery  alleys  within,  and  their  gay  troops  of 
proraenaders.  And,  as  I  distinguished  one  and  another  familiar 
friend,  with  a  form  as  familiar  clinging  to  his  side,  and,  with 
drooping  head  and  with  faltering  step,  listening  or  replying,  (I 
well  knew),  to  the  avowals  of  love  and  truth,  I  murmured  in 
thought,  to  my  own  far  away,  hut  never-forgotten  Edith,  a  vow  as 
deep — ay,  deeper  than  theirs,  as  my  spirit  and  hers  had  been 
sounded  by  the  profounder  plummet  of  sorrow  and  separation. 
How  the  very  moonlight — how  the  stars  of  heaven — how  the  balm 
in  the  air,  and  the  languor  of  summer  night  in  my  indolent  frame, 
seemed,  in  those  hours  of  loneliness,  ministers  at  the  passionate 
altar-fires  of  my  love  !  Forsworn  and  treacherous  Edith  !  do  I 
live  to  write  this  for  thine  eye  ? 

I  linger  upon  these  trifles  of  the  past — these  hours  for  which  I 
would  have  borrowed  wings  when  they  wore  here — and,  as  then 
they  seemed  but  the  flowering  promise  of  happiness,  they  seem 
now  like  the  fruit,  enjoyed  and  departed,  JPast  nnd  future  bliss 
there  would  seem  to  be  in  the  world — knows  any  one  of  such  a 
commodity  in  the  present  1     I  have  not  seen  it  in  my  travels. 


III. 


I  was  strolling  on,  through  one  of  the  most  fashionable  and  ro- 
mantic streets  (when  did  these  two  words  ever  before  find  them- 
selves in  a  sentence  together  r)  when  a  drawing-room  with  which 
I  was  very  familiar,  lit,  .unlike  most  others  on  that  bright  night, 
by  a  suspended  lamp,  and  crowded  with  company,  attracted  my 
attention  for  a  moment.  Between  the  house  and  the  street  there 
was  a  slight  shrubbery,  shut  in  by  a  white  paling,  just  suflicient  to 


EARLIER  DAYS.  g^ 

give  an  air  of  seclusion  to  the  low  windows  without  concealing 
them  from  the  passer-by,  end,  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  visiter, 
I  unconsciously  stopped,  and  ltK)ke4  unobserved  into  the  rooms.  It 
was  the  residence  of  a  magnificent  girl,  who  was  generally  known 
as  the  Connecticut  beauty — a  singular  instance  in  America  of 
what  is  called  in  England  a^?i€  woman.  (With  us  that  word  ap- 
plies wholly  to  moral  qualities.)  She  was  as  large  as  Jtmo,  and 
a  great  deal  handsomer,  if  the  painters  have  done  that  much- 
snubbed  goddess  justice.  She  was  a  "  book  of  beauty"  printed 
with  virgin  type  ;  and  that,  by  the  way,  suggests  to  me  what  I 
have  all  my  life  been  trying  to  express — that  some  women  seem 
wrought  of  new  material  altogether,  apropos  to  others  who  eeem 
mortal  rechauffes — as  if  every  limb  and  feature  had  been  used, 
and  got  out  of  shape,  in  some  other  person's  service.  The  lady  I 
speak  of  looked  new — and  her  name  was  Isidora. 

She  was  standing  just  under  the  lamp,  with  a  single  rose  in  her 
hair,  listening  to  a  handsome  coxcomb  of  a  classmate  of  mine 
with  evident  pleasure.  She  was  a  great  fool,  (did  I  mention  that 
before  ?)  but  weak,  and  vacant,  and  innocent  of  an  idea  as  she 
was,  Faustina  was  not  more  naturally  majestic,  nor  Psyche  (soit 
elk  en  grande)  more  divinely  and  meaningly  graceful.  Loveliness 
and  fascination  came  to  her  as  dew  and  sunshine  to  the  flowers, 
and  she  obeyed  her  instinct,  as  they  theirs,  and  was  helplessly, 
and  without  design,  the  loveliest  thing  in  nature.  I  do  not  see, 
for  my  part,  why  all  women  should  not  be  so.  They  are  as  use- 
ful as  flowers  ;  they  perpetuate  our  species. 

I  was  looking  at  her  with  irresistible  admiration,  when  a  figure 
stepped  out  from  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  and  my  chum,  monster, 
and  ally,  Job  Smith  (of  whom  I  have  before  spoken  of  in  certain 
historical  papers),  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 


04  SKETCH  OF  A  CHUM. 


"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Job,"  1  said,  in  a  solemn  tone  of  ad- 
monition, "  that  blind  John  was  imprisoned  for  looking  into 
people's  windows  r" 

But  Job  was  not  in  the  vein  for  pleasantry.  The  light  fell  on 
his  face  as  I  spoke  to  him,  and  a  more  haggard,  almost  blasted 
expression  of  countenance,  I  never  saw  even  in  a  madhouse.  I 
well  knew  he  had  loved  the  splendid  girl  who  stood  unconsciously 
in  our  sight,  since  his  first  year  in  college  ;  but,  that  it  would  ever 
so  master  him,  or  that  he  could  link  his  monstrous  deformity,  even 
in  thought,  with  that  radiant  vision  of  beauty,  was  a  thing  that  I 
thought  as  probable  as  that  hirsute  Pan  would  tempt  from  her 
sphere  the  moon  that  kissed  Endymion. 

"  I  have  been  standing  here,  looking  at  Isidora,  ever  since  you 
bft  me,"  said  he.  (We  had  parted  three  hours  before,  at  twi- 
light.) 

"  And  why  not  go  in,  in  the  name  of  common  sense  ?" 

*'  Oh  !  Heavens,  Phil ! — with  this  demon  in  my  heart  ?  Can 
you  see  my  face  in  this  light  ?" 

It  was  too  true— he  would  have  frightened  the  household  gods 
from  their  pedestals. 

"  But  what  would  you  do,  my  dear  Job  ?  Why  come  here  to 
madden  yourself  with  a  sight  you  must  have  known  you  would 
see  " 

''  Phil  r" 

"  What,  my  dear  boy .?" 

"  Will  you  do  me  a  kindness  .?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Isidora  would  do  anything  you  wished  her  to  do." 

**  Um  !  with  a  reservation,  my  dear  chum  !" 

**  But  she  would  give  you  the  rose  that  is  in  her  hair." 


EARLIER  DAYS.  $^ 


*' "Without  a  doubt." 

"  And  for  me — if  you  told  her  it  was  for  me.  Would  she 
not?" 

"  Perhaps.     But  will  that  content  you  .^" 

"  It  will  soften  my  despair.  I  will  never  look  on  her  face 
more  ;  but  I  should  like  my  last  sight  of  her  to  be  associated 
with  kindness?" 

Poor  Job !  how  true  it  is  that  "^'  affection  is  a  fire  which  kind- 
leth  as  well  in  the  bramble  as  in  the  oak,  and  catcheth  hold  where 
it  first  lighteth,  not  where  it  may  best  burn."  I  do  believe  in 
my  heart  that  the  soul  in  thee  was  designed  for  a  presentable 
body — thy  instincts  were  so  invariably  mistaken.  When  didst 
thou  ever  think  a  thought,  or  stir  hand  or  foot,  that  it  did  not 
seem  prompted,  monster  though  thou  wert,  by  conscious  good- 
looking-ness  !  What  a  lying  similitude  it  was  that  was  written  on 
every  blank  page  in  thy  Lexicon  :  "  Larks  that  mount  in  the  air, 
build  their  nests  below  in  the  earth  ;  and  women  who  cast  their 
eyes  upon  kings,  may  place  their  hearts  upon  vassals."  Apelles 
must  have  been  better  looking  than  Alexander,  when  Campaspe 
said  that ! 

As  a  general  thing  you  may  ask  a  friend  freely  to  break  any 
three  of  the  commandments,  in  your  service,  but  you  should  hesi- 
tate to  require  of  friendship  a  violation  of  etiquette.  I  was  in  a 
round  jacket  and  boots,  and  it  was  a  dress  evening  throughout 
New  Haven.  I  looked  at  my  dust-covered  feet,  when  Job  asked 
me  to  enter  a  soiree  upon  his  errand,  and  passed  my  thumb  and 
finger  around  the  edge  of  my  white  jacket ;  but  I  loved  Job,  as  the 
Arabian  loves  his  camel,  and  for  the  same  reason,  with  a  differ- 
ence— the  imperishable  well-spring  he  carried  in  his  heart  through 
the  desert  of  the  world,  and  which  I  well  knew  he  would  give  up 


his  life  to  oiFer  at  need,  as  patiently  as  the  animal  whose  con- 
struction (inner  and  outer)  he  so  remarkably  resembled.  When  T 
hesitated,  and  looked  down  at  my  boots,  therefore,  it  was  less  to 
seek  for  an  excuse  to  evade  the  sacrificing  office  required  of 
me,  than  to  beat  about  in  my  unprepared  mind  for  a  preface  to 
my  request.  If  she  had  been  a  women  of  sense,  I  should  have  had 
no  difficulty  ;  but  it  requires  caution  and  skill  to  go  out  of  the 
beaten  track  with  a  fool. 

"  Would  not  the  rose  do  as  well,"  said  I,  in  desperate  embar- 
rassment, "  if  she  does  not  know  that  it  is  for  you^  my  dear  Job  ?" 
It  would  have  been  very  easy  to  have  asked  for  it  for  myself. 

Job  laid  his  hand  upon  his  side,  as  if  I  could  not  comprehend 
the  pang  my  proposition  gave  him. 

"  Away,  prop,  and  down,  scaffiDld,"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  my 
jacket  a  hitch,  and  entered  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby,"  announced  the  servant. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby .?"  inquired  the  mistress  of  the  house,  seeing 
only  a  white  jacket  in  the  clair  ohscur  of  the  hall. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby  ! ! !"  cried  out  twenty  voices  in  amazement,  as  I 
stepped  over  the  threshold  into  the  light. 

It  has  happened,  since  the  days  of  Thebet  Ben  Khorat,  that 
scholars  have  gone  mad,  and  my  sanity  was  evidently  the  upper- 
most concern  in  the  minds  of  all  present.  (I  should  observe,  that 
in  those  days,  I  relished  rather  of  dandyism.)  As  I  read  the 
suspicion  in  their  minds,  however,  a  thought  struck  me.  I  went 
straight  up  to  Miss  Higgins,  and,  sotto  voce,  asked  her  to  take  a 
turn  with  me  in  the  garden. 

*'Isidora,"  I  said,  ''I  have  long  known  your  superiority  of 
mind,"  (when  you  want  anything  of  a  woman,  praise  her  for  that 
in  which  she  is  most  deficient,  says  La  Bruyere),  "  and  I  havo 


EARLIER  DAYS.  6T 


great  occasion  to  rely  on  it,  iji  the  request  I  am  about  to  make  of 
you." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  sailed  along  the  gravel-walk  with 
heightened  majesty.  I  had  not  had  occasion  to  pay  her  a  compli- 
ment before,  since  my  freshman  year. 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Slingsby  .?" 

"  You  know  Smith — my  chum." 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  have  just  come  from  him." 

"Well!" 

*'  He  is  gone  mad  !" 

"  Mad  !  Mr.  Slingsby  .?" 

"  Stark  and  furious  !" 

"  Gracious  goodness !" 

"  And  all  for  you  !" 

"  For  me  ! !" 

"  For  you !"  I  thought  her  great  blue  eyes  would  have  become 
what  they  call  in  America  "  sot,''  at  this  astounding  communi- 
cation. 

"  Now,  Miss  Higgins,"  I  continued,  "  pray  listen ;  my  poor 
friend  has  such  extraordinary  muscular  strength,  that  seven  men 
cannot  hold  him." 

"  Gracious  !" 

"  And  he  has  broken  away,  and  is  here  at  your  door." 

"  Good  Gracious !" 

"  Don't  be  afraid !  He  is  as  gentle  as  a  kitten  when  I  am 
present.  And  now,  hear  my  request.  He  leaves  town  to-morrow. 
as  you  well  Know,  not  to  return.  I  shall  take  him  home  to  Ver- 
mont with  keepers.  He  is  bent  upon  one  thing,  and  in  that  you 
must  humor  him." 


€8  SOULS  IN  THE  WRONG  BODIES. 


Miss  Higgins  began  to  be  alarmed. 

"  He  has  looked  througli  the  window,  and  seen  you  with  a  rose 
in  your  hair,  and,  despairing  even  in  his  madness,  of  your  love,  he 
says,  that  if  you  would  give  him  that  rose,  with  a  kind  word,  and 
a  farewell,  he  should  be  happy.     You  will  do  it,  will  you  not .?" 

"  Dear  me  !  I  should  be  so  afraid  to  speak  to  him  !" 

"  But  will  you  ?  and  I'll  tell  you  what  to  say." 

Miss  Higgins  gave  a  reluctant  consent,  and  I  passed  ten  minutes 
in  drilling  her  upon  two  sentences,  which,  with  her  fine  manner 
and  sweet  voice,  really  sounded  like  the  most  interesting  thing  in 
the  world.  I  left  her  in  the  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  and  returned  to  Job. 

"  You  have  come  without  it !"  said  the  despairing  lover,  falling 
back  against  the  tree. 

"  Miss  Higgins'*s  compliments,  and  begs  you  will  go  round  by 
the  gate,  and  meet  her  in  the  summer-house.  She  prefers  to  man- 
age her  own  affairs." 

"  Good  God  !  are  you  mocking  me  .^" 

"  I  will  accompany  you,  my  dear  boy." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  pathos  and  ludicrousness  in  that  scene, 
which  starts  a  tear  and  a  laugh  together,  whenever  I  recall  it  to  my 
mind.  The  finest  heart  in  the  world,  the  most  generous,  the  most 
diffident  of  itself,  yet  the  most  self-sacrificing  and  delicate,  was  at  the 
altar  of  its  devotion,  offering  its  all  in  passionate  abandonment  for  a 
flower  and  a  kind  word  ;  and  she,  a  goose  in  the  guise  of  an  angel, 
repeated  a  phrase  of  kindness,  of  which  she  could  not  comprehend 
the  meaning  or  the  worth,  but  which  was  to  be  garnered  up  by 
that  half-broken  heart,  as  a  treasure  that  repaid  him  for  years  of 
unrequited  affection  !  She  recited  it  really  very  well.  I  stood  at 
the  latticed  door,  and  interrupted  them  the  instant  there  was  a 


EARLIER  DAYS.  0^ 

pause  in  the  dialogue  ;  and,  getting  Job  away  as  fast  as  possible,  I 
left  Miss  Higgius  with  a  promise  of  secrecy,  and  resumed  my 
midnight  stroll. 

Apropos — among  Job's  letters  is  a  copy  of  verses,  which,  spite 
of  some  little  inconsistencies,  I  think  were  written  on  this  very 
occasion : — 

I. 

Nay — smile  not  on  me — I  have  borne 

Indifference  and  repulse  from  thee  ; 
With  my  heart  sickening,  I  have  worn 

A  brow,  as  thine  own  cold  one,  free  ; 
My  lip  has  been  as  gay  as  thine, 

Ever  thine  own  light  mirth  repeating, 
Though,  in  this  burning  brain  of  mine, 

A  throb  the  while,  like  death,  was  beating : 
My  spirit  did  not  shrink  or  swerve — 

Thy  look — I  thank  thee  ! — froze  the  nerve  I 

II. 
But  now  again,  as  when  I  met 
And  loved  thee  in  my  happier  days, 
A  smile  upon  thy  bright  lip  plays, 
And  kindness  in  thine  eye  is  set — 

And  this  I  cannot  bear ! 
It  melts  the  manhood  from  my  pride, 
It  brings  me  closer  to  thy  side — 
Bewilders — chains  me  there — 
There — where  my  dearest  hope  was  crushed  and  died  I 

III. 

Oh,  if  thou  couldst  but  know  the  deep 

Of  love  that  hope  has  nursed  for  years — 
How  in  the  heart's  still  chambers  sleep 

Its  hoarded  thoughts,  its  trembling  feaif— 
Treasure  that  love  ha«  brooded  o'er 


to  NAMING  CHILDREN, 


Till  life,  than  this,  has  nothing  more — 

And  couldst  thou — ^but  "tis  vain  ! — 
I  will  not,  cannot  tell  thee,  how 
That  hoard  consumes  its  coffer  now — 
I  may  not  write  of  pain 
That  sickens  in  the  heart,  and  maddens  in  the  brain  1 

IV. 

Then  smile  not  on  me  !  pass  me  by 

Coldly,  and  with  a  careless  mien — 
'Twill  pierce  my  heart,  and  fill  mine  eye, 
But  I  shall  be  as  I  have  been— 
Quiet  in  my  despair ! 
'Tis  better  than  the  throbbing  fever, 
That  else  were  in  my  brain  for  ever, 

And  easier  to  bear ! 
I'll  not  upbraid  the  coldest  look — 
The  bitterest  word  thou  hast,  in  my  sad  pride  I'll  Irook ! 

If  Job  had  rejoiced  in  a  more  euphonious  name,  I  should  have 
bought  a  criticism  in  some  review,  and  started  him  fairly  as  a 
poet.  But  "  Job  Smith  !"— "  Poems  by  Job  Smith  !"— It  would 
never  do  !  If  he  wrote  like  a  seraph,  and  printed  the  book  at 
his  own  expense,  illustrated  and  illuminated,  and  half-a-crown  to 
each  person  that  would  take  one  away,  the  critics  would  damn 
him  all  the  same  !  Really,  one's  father  and  mother  have  a  great 
deal  to  answer  for  !* 

But  Job  is  a  poet  who  should  have  lived  in  the  middle  ages,  no 
less  for  the  convenience  of  the  nom  de  guerre^  fashionable  in  those 
days,  than  because  his  poetry,  being  chiefly  the  mixed  product  of 
feeling  and  courtesy,  is  particularly  susceptible  to  ridicule.  The 
philosophical  and  iron-wire  poetry  of  our  day  stands  an  attack  like 
a  fortification,  and  comes  down  upon  the  besieger  with  reason  and 

*  Charles  Lamb  writes  to  a  friend,  on  the  subject  of  naming  his  child  :— 
"  For  God's  sake,  donH  Nicodemus  him  into  nothiog !" 


EARLIER  DAYS.  71 


.ogic  as  good  as  his  own.  Eut  the  more  delicate  offspring  of  ten- 
derness and  chivahy,  intending  no  violence,  and  ventui'ing  out  to 
sea  upon  a  rose-leaf,  is  destroyed  and  sunk  beyond  diving-bells  by 
half  a  breath  of  scorn.  I  would  subscribe  liberally,  myself,  to  a 
private  press  and  court  of  honor  in  poetry — critics,  if  admitted,  to 
be  dumb  upon  a  penalty.  Will  no  Howard  or  Wilberforce  act 
upon  this  hint  ?  Poets  now-a-days  are  more  slaves  and  felons 
than  your  African,  or  your  culprit  at  the  old  Bailey  ! 

I  would  go  a  great  way,  privately,  to  find  a  genuine  spark  of 
chivalry,  and  Job  lit  his  e very-day  lamp  with  it.  See  what  a  re- 
dolence of  old  time  there  is  in  these  verses,  which  I  copied  long 
ago  from  a  lady's  album.  Yet,  you  may  ridicule  them  if  you 
like  I— 

There  is  a  story  I  have  met, 

Of  a  high  angelj  pure  and  true, 
With  eyes  that  tears  had  never  wet, 

And  lips  that  pity  never  knew  j 
But  ever  on  his  throne  he  sate, 

With  his  white  pinions  proudly  furleJ, 
And,  looking  from  his  high  estate, 

Beheld  the  errors  of  a  world  : 
Yet,  never,  as  they  rose  to  heaven, 
Plead  ev'n  for  one  to  be  forgiven. 

• 

Grod  looked  at  last  upon  his  pride, 

And  bade  him  fold  his  shining  wing, 

And  o'er  a  land  where  tempters  bide, 

He  made  the  heartless  angel  king. 

'Tis  lovely,  reading  in  the  tale, 

The  glorious  spells  they  tried  on  hiim, 
Ere  grew  his  heavenly  birth-star  pale, 

Ere  grew  his  frontlet  jewel  dim — 
Caps  of  such  rare  and  ravishing  wines 


*?a  BOY  POEMS. 


As  ev'n  a  god  might  drink  and  bless, 
Gems  from  unsearched  and  central  mines, 

Whose  light  than  heaven's  was  scarcely  less- 
Gold  of  a  sheen  like  crystal  spars, 

And  silver  whiter  than  the  moon's, 
And  music  like  the  songs  of  stars. 

And  perfume  like  a  thousand  Junes, 
And  breezes,  soft  as  heaven's  own  air. 

Like  fingers  playing  in  his  hair ! 
He  shut  his  eyes — he  closed  his  ears— - 

He  bade  them,  in  God's  name,  begone  ! 
And,  through  the  yet  eternal  years, 

Had  stood,  the  tried  and  sinless  one : 
But  there  was  yet  one  untried  spell — 
A  woman  tempted — and  he  fell ! 

And  I — if  semblance  I  may  find 

Between  such  glorious  sphere  and  mine- 
Am  not  to  the  high  honor  blind. 

Of  filling  this  fair  page  of  thine — 
Writing  my  unheard  name  among 
Sagos  and  sires  and  men  of  song — 

But  honor,  though  the  best  e'er  given, 
And  glory,  though  it  were  a  king's, 

And  power,  though  loving  it  like  heaven, 
Were,  to  my  seeming,  lesser  things. 

And  less  temptation,  far,  to  me,  * 

Than  half  a  hope  of  serving  thee  I 

I  am  mounted  upon  my  hobby  now,  dear  reader;  for  Job 
Smith,  though  as  hideous  an  idol  as  ever  was  worshipped  on  tho 
Indus,  was  still  my  idol.     Here  is  another  touch  of  his  quality  : 

I  look  'ipon  the  fading  flowers 

Thou  gav'st  me,  lady,  in  thy  mirth, 
And  mourn,  that,  with  the  perishing  hours, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  73 

Such  fair  things  perish  from  the  earth— 
For  thus,  I  know,  the  moment's  feeling 

Its  own  light  web  of  life  unweaves, 
The  deepest  trace  from  memory  stealing, 

Like  perfume  from  these  dying  leaves— 
The  thought  that  gave  it,  and  the  flower 
Alike  the  creatures  of  an  hour. 

And  thus  it  better  were,  perhaps, 

For  feeling  is  the  nurse  of  pain, 
And  joys,  that  linger  in  their  lapse, 

Must  die  at  last,  and  so  are  vain  f 
Could  I  revive  these  faded  flowers, 

Could  I  call  back  departed  bliss, 
I  would  not,  though  this  world  of  ours 

Were  ten  times  brighter  than  it  is  1 
They  must — and  let  them — pass  away ! 

We  are  forgotten— ev'n  as  they ! 

I  think  I  must  give  Edith  another  reprieve.  I  have  no  idea 
why  I  have  digressed,  this  time,  from  the  story  which  (you  may 
see  by  the  motto  at  the  beginning  of  the  paper)  I  have  not  yet 
told.  I  can  conceive  easily  how  people,  who  have  nothing  to  do, 
betake  themselves  to  autobiography — it  is  so  pleasant  rambling 
about  over  the  past,  and  re-gathering  only  the  flowers.  AVhy 
should  pain  and  mortification  be  unsepultured  ?  The  world  is  no 
wiser  for  these  written  experiences.  "  The  best  book,"  said 
Southey,  "  does  but  little  good  to  the  world,  and  much  harm  to 
the  author."  I  shall  deliberate  whether  to  enlighten  the  world,  as 
to  Edith's  metempsychosis,  or  no. 


fl  TUNE  IN  AMEKICA. 


PART  IV. 

SCENERY    AND    A    SCENE. 


"Truth  is  no  doctoresse  ;  she  takes  no  degrees  at  Paris  or  Oxford,  among  great 
clerks,  disputants,  subtle  Aristotles,  men  nodosi  ingenii,  able  to  take  Lully  by  the 
chin  ;  but  oftentimes,  to  such  a  one  as  myself,  an  idiota  or  common  person,  no  great 
things,  melancholizing  in  woods  where  waters  are,  quiet  places  by  rivers,  fountains  ; 
•whereas  the  silly  man,  expecting  no  such  matter,  thinketh  only  how  best  to  delec- 
tate  and  refresh  his  mynde  continually  with  nature,  her  pleasant*  scenes,  woods, 
waterfalls  :  on  a  sudden  the  goddess  herself.  Truth  has  appeared  with  a  shining 
light  and  a  sparkling  countenance,  so  as  ye  may  not  be  able  lightlv  to  resist  her." — 
Burton. 

Ever  thus 
Drop  from  us  treasures  one  by  one  ; 

They  who  have  been  froin  youth  with  us. 
Whose  every  look,  whose  every  tone, 

Is  linked  to  us  like  leaves  to  flowers — 

They  who  have  shared  our  pleasant  hours- 
"Whose  voices,  so  familiar  grown, 
They  almost  seem  to  us  our  own — 

The  echoes  of  each  breath  of  ours— 
They  who  have  ever  been  our  pride, 

Yet  in  their  hours  of  triumph  dearest— 
They  whom  we  must  have  known  and  tried, 

And  loved  the  most  when  tried  the  nearest — 
They  pass  from  us,  like  stars  that  wane, 

The  brightest  still  before. 
Or  gold  links  broken  from  a  chain 

That  can  be  joined  no  more  I 

Job  Smith  and  myself  were  on  the  return  from  Niagara.  It 
was  in  the  slumberous  and  leafy  midst  of  June.  Lake  Erie  had 
lain  with  a  silver  glaze  upon  its  bosom  for  days ;  the  ragged  trees 
ppon  its  green  shore  dropping  their  branches  into  the  stirless 
water,  as  if  it  were  some  rigid  imitation — the  lake  glass,  and  the 
leaves  emerald  ;  the  sky  was  of  an  April  blue,  as  if  a  night-rain 
had  washed  out  its  milkiness,'  till  you  could  see  through  its  clari- 
fied depths  to  the  gates  of  heaven  ;  and  yet,  breathless  and  sunny 
as  was  the  face  of  the  earth,  there  was  a  nerve  and  a  vitality  in 


EARLIER  DAYS.  75 


the  air  that  exacted  of  every  pulse  its  full  compass — searched 
every  pore  for  its  capacity  of  the  joy  of  existence. 

No  one  can  conceive,  who  has  not  had  his  imagination  stretched  at 
the  foot  of  Niagara,  or  in  the  Titanic  solitudes  of  the  West,  the 
vastness  of  the  unbroken  phases  of  nature  ;  where  every  tree  looks 
a  king,  and  every  flower  a  marvel  of  glorious  form  and  color — 
where  the  rocks  are  rent,  every  one,  as  by  the  "tenth"  thunder- 
bolt— and  lake,  mountain,  or  river,  ravine  or  waterfall,  cave  or 
eagle's  nest,  whatever  it  may  be  that  feeds  the  eye  or  the  fancy, 
is  as  the  elements  have  shaped  and  left  it — where  the  sculpture, 
and  the  painting,  and  the  poetry,  and  the  wonderful  alchymy  of 
nature,  go  on  under  the  naked  eye  of  the  Almighty,  and  by  his 
own  visible  and  uninterrupted  hand — and  where  the  music  of  nature, 
from  the  anthem  of  the  torrent  and  storm,  broken  only  by  the 
scream  of  the  vulture,  to  the  trill  of  the  rivulet  with  its  accompani- 
ment of  singing  birds  and  winds,  is  for  ever  ringing  its  changes, 
as  if  for  the  stars  to  hear — in  such  scenes,  I  say,  and  in  such 
gcencs  only,  is  the  imagination  overtasked,  or  stretched  to  the 
capacity  of  a  seraph's ;  and,  while  common  minds  sink  beneath 
them  to  the  mere  inanition  of  their  animal  senses,  the  loftier 
spirit  takes  their  color  and  stature,  and  outgrows  the  common  and 
pitiful  standards  of  the  world.  Cooper  and  Leatherstocking  thus 
became  what  they  are — the  one  a  high-priest  of  imagination  and 
poetry,  and  the  other  a  simple-hearted  but  mere  creature  of  in- 
stinct ;  and  Cooper  is  no  more  a  living  man,  and  liable  to  the 
common  laws  of  human  nature,  than  Leatherstocking  a  true  and 
life-like  transcript  of  the  more  common  effect  of  those  overpower- 
ing solitudes  on  the  character. 

We  got  on  board  the  canal-boat  at  noon,  and  Job  and  myself, 
eeated  on  the  well-cushioned  seats,  with  the  blinds  half-turned,  to 


76  SCENERY  VERSUS  SOCIETY: 


give  Tis  the  prospect  and  exclude  the  sun,  sat  disputing  in  our 
usual  amicable  way.  He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  with 
whom  I  could  argue  without  losing  my  temper ;  and  the  reason 
was,  that  I  always  had  the  last  word,  and  thought  myself  victorious. 
"  We  are  about  to  return  into  the  bosom  of  society,  my  dear 
Job,"  said  T,  looking  with  unctuous  good  nature  on  the  well-shaped 
boot  I  had  put  on  for  the  first  time  in  a  month  that  morning 
(It  is  an  unsentimental  fact  that  hob-nailed  shoes  are  indispensa- 
ble on  the  most  poetical  spots  of  earth. J 

"  Yes,"  said  Job  ;  "  but  how  superior  is  the  society  we  leave 
behind  !  Niagara  and  Erie  !  What,  in  your  crowded  city,  is  com- 
parable to  these  .^" 

"  Nothing,  for  size  ! — but,  for  society — j^ou  will  think  me  a  pa- 
gan, dear  chum — but,  on  my  honor,  straight  from  Niagara  as  T 
come,  I  f'^el  a  most  dissatisfied  yearning  for  the  society  of  Miss 
Popkins  !" 

"Oh,  Phil!" 

"  On  my  honor  !" 

"  You,  who  were  in  such  raptures  at  the  Falls  !" 

"  And  real  ones — but  I  wanted  a  woman  at  my  elbow  to  listen 
to  them.  Do  you  know.  Job,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  on  a  great 
principle  since  we  have  been  on  our  travels  :  Have  you  observed 
that  I  was  pensive  .^" 

"  Not  particularly — but  what  is  your  principle  .?" 

"  That  a  man  is  a  much  more  interesting  object  than  a  moun- 
tain." 

"  A  man  !  did  you  say .?" 

"  Yes — but  I  meant  a  woman  !" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  do  ! — and  I  judge  by  myself.     When  did  I  ever  see  won 


EARLIER  DAYS.  77 


der  of  nature — tree,  sunset,  waterfall,  rapid,  lake,  or  river — that 
I  would  not  rather  have  been  talking  to  a  woman  the  while  ?  Do 
you  remember  the  three  days  we  were  tramping  through  the 
forest  without  seeing  the  sun,  as  if  we  had  been  in  the  endless 
aisle  of  a  cathedral  ?  Do  you  remember  the  long  morning  when 
we  lay  on  the  moss  at  the  foot  of  Niagara,  and  it  was  a  divine 
luxury  only  to  breathe  ?  Do  you  remember  the  lunar  rainbows  at 
midnight  on  Goat  Island  ?  Do  you  remember  the  ten  thousand 
glorious  moments  we  have  enjoyed  between  weather  and  scenery 
since  the  bursting  of  these  summer  leaves  ?     Do  you  ? 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  boy  !" 

"  Well,  then,  much  as  I  love  nature  and  you,  there  has  not 
been  an  hour  since  we  packed  our  knapsacks,  that,  if  I  could 
have  distilled  a  charming  girl  out  of  a  mixture  of  you  and  any 
mountain,  river,  or  rock,  that  I  have  seen,  I  would  not  have  flung 
you,  without  remorse,  into  any  witch's  caldron  that  was  large 
enough,  and  would  boil  at  my  bidding." 

"Monster!" 

"  And  I  believe  I  should  have  the  same  feelings  in  Italy  or 
Greece,  or  wherever  people  go  into  raptures  with  things  you  can 
neither  eat  nor  make  love  to." 

"  Would  not  even  the  Venus  fill  your  fancy  for  a  day  r" 

"  An  hour,  perhaps,  it  might ;  for  I  should  be  studying,  in  its 
cold  Parian  proportions,  the  structure  of  some  living  Musidora — 
but  I  should  soon  tire  of  it,  and  long  for  my  lunch  or  my  love  ; 
and,  I  give  you  my  honor,  I  would  not  lose  the  three  meals  of  a 
single  day  to  see  Santa  Croco  and  St.  Peter's." 

"  Both  .'" 

"  Both." 

Job  disdained  to  argue  against  such  a  want  of  sentimental  prin- 


78  TRAVEL  IN  CANAL-BOATS. 


ciple,  and,  pulling  up  the  blind,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  slowly- 
gliding  panorama  of  rock  and  forest,  and  I  mounted  for  a  pro- 
menade upon  the  deck. 

Mephistopheles  could  hardly  have  found  a  more  striking  amuse- 
ment for  Faust  than  the  passage  of  three  hundred  miles  in  the 
canal  from  Lake  Erie  to  the  Hudson.  As  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  deck  of  the  packet-boat,  I  thought  to  myself,  that,  if  it  were 
not  for  thoughts  of  things  that  come  more  home  to  one's  "  busi- 
ness and  bosom"  (particularly  "bosom"),  I  could  be  content  to 
re-take  my  berth  at  Schenectady,  and  return  to  Buffalo  for  amuse- 
ment. The  Erie  canal-boat  is  a  long  and  very  pretty  drawing- 
room  afloat.  It  has  a  library,  sofas,  a  tolerable  cook,  curtains  or 
Venetian  blinds,  a  civil  captain,  and  no  smell  of  steam  or  percepti- 
ble motion.  It  is  drawn  generally  by  three  horses  at  a  fair  trot, 
and  gets  you  through  about  a  hundred  miles  a  day,  as  softly  as  if 
you  were  witched  ov^r  tn:'  ground  by  Puck  and  Mustard-seed. 
The  comp;iny  (siiy  fiTty  pt  oplo)  is  such  as  pleases  Heaven;  though 
I  must  say  (with  n]y  •>ye  all  along  the  shore,  collecting  the  vari- 
ous dear  fiiends  I  hnvo  n;ade  and  left  on  that  long  canal)  there 
are  few  highways  on  which  you  will  nioet  so  many  lovely  and  lov- 
ing fellow-passcngors.  On  this  ooc-asi;»n  my  star  was  bankrupt — 
Job  Smith  being  my  only  civilized  companion — and  I  was  left  to 
the  unsatisfactory  society  of  my  own  thoughts  and  the  scenery. 

Discontented  as  I  may  seem  to  have  been,  I  ronicmber,  thi-ou2:h 
a  number  of  years  of  stirring  and  thickly-sown  nianliood,  eveiy 
moment  of  that  lovely  evening.  I  remember  the  progression  of 
the  sunset,  from  the  lengthening  shadows  and  the  first  gold  upon 
the  clouds,  to  the  deepening  twilight  and  the  new-sprung  star 
hung  over  the  wilderness.  And  I  remember  what  I  am  going  to 
lescribe — a  twilight  anthem   in  the  forest — as  you  remember  an 


EARLIER   DAYS.  79 


air  of  Rossini's,  or  a  transition  in  the  half-fiendish,  half-heavenly 
creations  of  IMeyerbeer.  I  thought  time  dragged  heavily,  then, 
but  I  wish  I  had  as  light  a  heart  and  could  feel  as  vividly  now ! 

The  Erie  canal  is  cut  a  hundred  or  two  miles  through  the  heart 
of  the  primeval  wilderness  of  America,  and  the  boat  was  gliding 
on  silently  and  swiftly  ;  and,  never  sailed  a  lost  cloud  through  the 
abyss  of  space  on  a  course  more  apparently  new  and  untrodden. 
The  luxuriant  soil  had  sent  up  a  rank  grass  that  covered  the  horse- 
path like  velvet ;  the  Erie  water  was  clear  as  a  brook  in  the  wind- 
ing canal ;  the  old  shafts  of  the  gigantic  forest  spurred  into  the 
sky  by  thousands,  and  the  yet  unscared  eagle  swung  off  from  the 
dead  branch  of  the  pine,  and  skimmed  the  tree-tops  for  another 
perch,  as  if  he  had  grown  to  believe  that  gliding  spectre  a  harm- 
less phenomenon  of  nature.  The  horses  drew  steadily  and  un- 
heard, at  the  end  of  the  long  line  ;  the  steersman  stood  motionless 
at  the  tiller,  and  I  lay  on  a  heap  of  baggage  in  the  prow,  atten- 
tive to  the  slightest  breathing  of  nature,  but  thinking,  with  an 
ache  at  my  heart,  of  Edith  Linsey,  to  whose  feet  (did  I  mention 
it  ?)  I  was  hastening  with  a  lover's  proper  impatience.  I  might 
as  well  have  taken  another  turn  in  my  "  fool's  paradise." 

The  gold  of  the  sunset  had  glided  up  the  the  dark  pine  tops 
and  disappeared,  like  a  ring  taken  slowly  from  an  Ethiop's  finger ; 
the  whip-poor-will  had  chanted  the  first  stave  of  his  lament ;  the 
bat  was  abroad,  and  the  screech-owl,  like  all  bad  singers,  com- 
menced without  waiting  to  be  importuned,  though  we  were  listen- 
ing for  the  nightingale.  The  air,  as  I  said  before,  had  been. all 
day  breathless ;  but,  as  the  first  chill  of  evening  displaced  the 
warm  atmosphere  of  the  departed  sun,  a  slight  breeze  crisped  the 
mirrored  bosom  of  the  canal,  and  then  commenced  the  nigLt 
antheni  of  the  forest,  audible,  I  would  fain  believe,  in  its  .soothiag 


80  UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 


changes,  by  the  dead  tribes  whose  bones  whiten  amid  the  perish- 
ing leaves.  First,  whisperingly  yet  articulately,  the  suspended 
and  wavering  foliage  of  the  birch  was  touched  by  the  many-finger- 
ed wind,  and,  like  a  faint  prelude,  the  silver-lined  leaves  rustled 
in  the  low  branches  ;  and,  with  a  moment's  pause,  when  you  could 
hear  the  moving  of  the  vulture's  claws  upon  the  bark,  as  he 
turned  to  get  his  breast  to  the  wind,  the  increasing  breeze  swept 
into  the  pine-tops,  and  drew  forth,  from  their  fringe-like  and 
myriad  tassels,  a  low  monotone  like  the  refrain  of  a  far-off  dirge ; 
and  still  as  it  murmured,  (seeming  to  you  sometimes  like  the  con- 
fused and  heart-broken  responses  of  the  penitents  on  a  cathedral 
floor),  the  blast  strengthened  and  filled,  and  the  rigid  leaves  of  the 
oak,  and  the  swaying  fans  and  chalices  of  the  magnolia,  and  the 
rich  cups  of  the  tulip  trees,  stirred  and  answered  with  their  differ- 
ent voices  like  many-toned  harps ;  and  when  the  wind  was  fully 
abroad,  and  every  moving  thing  on  the  breast  of  the  earth  was 
roused  from  its  daylight  repose,  the  irregular  and  capricious  blast, 
like  a  player  on  an  organ  of  a  thousand  stops,  lulled  and  strength- 
ened by  turns;  and,  from  the  hiss  in  the  rank  grass,  low  as  the 
whisper  of  fairies,  to  the  thunder  of  the  impinging  and  groaning 
branches  of  the  larch  and  the  fir,  the  anthem  went  ceaselessly 
through  its  changes,  and  the  harmony  (thougli  the  owl  broke  in 
with  his  scream,  and  though  the  over-blown  monarch  of  the  wood 
came  crashing  to  the  earth),  was  still  perfect  and  without  a  jar. 
It  is  strange  that  there  is  no  sound  of  nature  out  of  tune.  The 
roar  of  the  waterfall  comes  into  this  anthem  of  the  forest  like  aa 
accompaniment  of  bassoons,  and  the  occasional  bark  of  the  wolf, 
or  the  scream  of  a  night-bird,  or  even  the  deep-throated  croak  of 
the  frog,  is  no  more  discordant  than  the  outburst  of  an  octave  flute 
above  the  even  melody  of  an  orchestra  ;  and  it  is  surprising  how 


EARLIER  DAYS.  gj 


the  large  rain-drops,  pattering  on  the  leaves,  and  the  small  voice 
of  the  nightingale  (singing,  like  nothing  but  himself,  sweetest  in 
the  darkness)  seems  an  intensitive  and  alow  burthen  to  the  general 
anthem  of  the  earth — as  it  were,  a  single  voice  among  instruments. 

I  had  what  Wordsworth  calls  a  "  couchant  ear"  in  my  youth, 
and  my  story  will  wait,  dear  reader,  while  I  tell  you  of  another 
harmony  that  I  learned  to  love  in  the  wilderness. 

There  will  come  sometimes  in  the  Spring — say  in  May,  or  when- 
ever the  snow-drops  and  sulphur  butterflies  are  tempted  out  by 
the  first  timorous  sunshine — there  will  come,  I  say,  in  that  yearn- 
ing and^  youth-renewing  season,  a  warm  shower  at  noon.  Our 
tent  shall  be  pitched  on  the  skirts  of  a  forest  of  young  pines,  and 
the  evergreen  foliage,  if  foliage  it  may  be  called,  shall  be  a  daily 
refreshment  to  our  eye  while  watching,  with  the  west  wind  upon 
our  cheeks,  the  unclothed  branches  of  the  elm.  The  rain  de- 
scends softly  and  warm  ;  but,  with  the  sunset,  the  clouds  break 
away,  and  it  grows  suddenly  cold  enough  to  freeze.  The  next 
morning  you  shall  come  out  with  me  to  a  hill-side  looking  upon 
the  south,  and  lie  down  with  your  ear  to  the  earth.  The  pine 
tassels  hold,  in  every  four  of  their  fine  fingers,  a  drop  of  rain  frozen 
like  a  pearl  in  a  long  ear-ring,  sustained  in  their  loose  grasp  by 
the  rigidity  of  the  cold.  The  sun  grows  warm  at  ten,  and  the 
slight  green  fingers  begin  to  relax  and  j^ieid,  and,  by  eleven,  they 
are  all  dropping  their  icy  pearls  upon  the  dead  leaves,  with  a  mur- 
mur through  the  forest  like  the  swarming  of  the  bees  of  Hybla. 
There  is  not  much  variety  in  its  music,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  mo- 
notone for  thought ;  and  if,  you  have  a  restless  fever  in  your  bo- 
som (as  I  had,  when  I  learned  to  love  it,  for  the  travel  which  ha^ 
corrupted  the  heart  and  the  ear  that  it  soothed  and  satisfied  then) 
you  may  lie  down  with  a  crooked  root  under  your  head,,  in  the 


82 


TRENTON  FALLS. 


skirts  of  the  forest,  aud  thank  Heaven  for  an  anodyne  to  care 
And  it  is  better  than  the  voice  of  your  friend,  or  the  song  of  your 
lady-love,  for  it  exacts  no  gratitude,  and  will  not  desert  you  ere 
the  echo  dies  upon  the  wind. 

Oh,  how  many  of  these  harmonies  there  are  ! — how  many  that 
we  hear,  and  how  many  that  are  "  too  constant  to  be  heard  !"  I 
could  go  back  to  my  boyhood,  now,  with  this  thread  of  recollection, 
and  unsepulture  a  hoard  of  simple  and  long-buried  joys,  that  would 
bring  the  blush  upon  my  cheek  to  think  how  my  senses  are  dulled 
since  such  things  could  give  me  pleasure  !  Is  there  no  "  well  of 
Kanathos"  for  renewing  the  youth  of  the  soul  ? — no  St.  Hilary's 
cradle  .?  no  elixir  to  cast  the  slough  of  heart-sickening  and  heart- 
tarnishing  custom  ?  Find  me  an  alchymy  for  thatf  with  your 
alembic  and  crucible,  and  you  may  resolve  to  dross  again  your 
philosopher's  stone .' 

IL 

Everybody  who  makes  the  passage  of  the  Erie  canal,  stops  at 
tlie  half-way  town  of  Utica,  to  visit  a  wonder  of  nature  fourteen 
miles  to  the  west  of  it,  called  Trenton  Falls.  It  would  be  becom- 
ing in  me,  before  mentioning  the  Falls,  however,  to  sing  the  praises 
of  Utica  and  its  twenty  thousand  inhabitants — having  received 
much  hospitality  from  the  worthy  burghers,  and  philandered  up 
and  down  their  well-flagged  trottoir  very  much  to  my  private  sat- 
isfaction. I  should  scorn  any  man's  judgment  who  should  attempt 
to  convince  me  that  the  Erie  water,  which  comes  down  the  canal 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  and  passes  through  the  market-place  of 
that  pleasant  town,  has  not  communicated,  to  the  hearts  of  its 
citizens,  the  expansion  and  depth  of  the  parent  lake  from  which  it 
is  drawn.     I  have  a  theory  on  th:it  subject  with  wliich  I  intend  to 


EARLIER  DAYS.  ^  (|3 


surprise  the  world,  whenever  politics  and  Mr.  Bulwer  draw  less 
engrossingly  on  its  attention.  Will  any  one  tell  me  that  the  dark 
eyes  I  knew  there,  and  whose  like,  for  softness  and  meaning,  I 
inquired  for  in  vain  through  Italy,  and  the  voice  that  accompanied 
their  gaze — (that  Pasta,  in  her  divinest  out-gush  of  melody  and 
soul,  alone  recalls  to  me) — that  these,  and  the  noble  heart,  and 
high  mind,  and  even  the  genius,  that  were  other  gifts  of  the  same 
marvel  among  women — that  these  were  born  of  common  parent- 
age, and  nursed  by  the  air  of  a  demi-metropolis  }  We  were  but 
the  kindest  of  friends,  that  bright  creature  and  myself,  and  I  may 
say,  without  charging  myself  with  the  blindness  of  love,  that  I  be- 
lieve in  my  heart  she  was  the  foster-child  of  the  water-spirits  on 
whose  wandering  streamlet  she  lived — that  the  thousand  odors 
that  swept  down  from  the  wilderness  upon  Lake  Erie,  and  the  un- 
seen but  wild  and  innumerable  influences  of  nature,  or  whatever 
you  call  that  which  makes  the  Indian  a  believer  in  the  Great  Spirit 
-^that  these  came  down  with  those  clear  waters,  ministering  to 
the  mind  and  watching  over  the  budding  beauty  of  this  noble  and 
most  high-hearted  woman  !  If  you  do  not  believe  it,  I  should  like 
you  to  tell  me  how  else  such  a  creature  was  ^'  raised,"  as  they 
phrase  it  in  Virginia.  I  shall  hold  to  my  theory  till  you  furnish 
me  with  a  more  reasonable. 

We  heard  at  the  hotel  that  there  were  several  large  parties  at 
Trenton  Falls,  and,  with  an  abridgment  of  our  toilets  in  our 
pockets.  Job  and  I  galloped  out  of  Utica  about  four  o^clock  of  as 
bright  a  summer's  afternoon  as  was  ever  promised  in  the  almanac. 
We  drew  rein  a  mile  or  two  out  of  town,  and  dawdled  alonor  the 
wild  road  more  leisurely.  Job's  Green  Mountain  proportions  fittin*^ 
to  the  saddle  something  in  the  manner  and  relative  fitness  of  a 
skeleton  on  a  poodle.     By  the  same  token,  he  rode  safely,  thy 


84  JOB  ON  HORSEBACK. 


looseness  of  his  bones  accommodating  itself  with  singular  facility 
to  the  irregularities  in  the  pace  of  the  surprised  animal  beneath 
him 

I  dislike  to  pass  over  the  minutest  detail  of  a  period  of  my  life 
that  will  be  rather  interesting  in  my  biography,  (it  is  my  intention 
to  be  famous  enough  to  merit  that  distinction,  and  I  would  recom- 
mend to  my  friends  to  be  noting  my  "  little  peculiarities"),  and, 
with  this  posthumous  benevolence  in  my  heart,  I  simply  record, 
that  our  conversation,  on  the  road  turned  upon  Edith  Linsey — at 
this  time  the  lady  of  my  constant  love — for  whose  sake,  and  at 
whose  bidding,  I  was  just  concluding  (with  success  I  presumed)  a 
probation  of  three  years  of  absence,  silence,  hard  study,  and  rigid 
morals ;  and  upon  whose  parting  promise  (God  forgive  her  !)  I  had 
built  my  uttermost  gleaning  and  sand  of  earthly  hope  and  desire. 
I  tell  you,  in  the  tail  of  this  mocking  paragraph,  dear  reader,  that 
the  bend  of  the  rainbow  spans  not  the  earth  more  perfectly  than 
did  the  love  of  that  woman  my  hopes  of  future  bliss ;  and  the 
ephemeral  arc  does  not  sooner  melt  into  the  clouds — but  I  am 
anticipating  my  story. 

Job's  extraordinary  appearance,  as  he  extricated  himself  from 
his  horse,  usually  attracted  the  entire  attention  of  the  by-standers 
at  a  strange  inn ;  and,  under  cover  of  this,  I  usually  contrived  to 
get  into  the  house  and  commit  him  by  ordering  the  dinner  as  soon 
its  it  could  be  got  ready.  Else,  if  it  was  in  the  neighborhood  of 
scenery,  he  was  oif  till  Heaven  knew  when,  and,  as  1  had  that 
delicacy  for  his  feelings  never  to  dine  without  him,  you  naj'  im- 
agine the  necessity  of  my  hungry  manoeuvre. 

We  dined  upon  the  trout  of  the  glorious  stream  we  had  come 
to  see  ;  and,  as  our  host's  eldest  daughter  waited  upon  us  (record- 
ed, in  Job's  journal,  in  my  possession  at  this  moment,  as  "  tho 


EARLIER  DAYS.  85 


most  comely  and  gracious  virgin"  he  had  seen  in  his  travels),  we 
felt  bound  to  adapt  our  conversation  to  the  purity  of  her  mind, 
and  discussed  only  the  philosophical  point,  whether  the  beauty  of 
the  stream  could  be  tasted  in  the  flavor  of  the  fish — Job  for  it,  1 
against  it.  The  argument  was  only  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  an  apple-pudding,  so  hot  that  our  tongues  were  fully  occupied 
in  removing  it  from  place  to  place  as  the  mouth  felt  its  heat  incon- 
venient ;  and  then,  being  in  a  country  of  liberty  and  equality,  and 
ihe  damsel  in  waiting,  as  Job  smilingly  remarked,  as  much  a  lady 
as  the  President's  wife,  he  requested  permission  to  propose  her 
health  in  a  cool  tumbler  of  cider,  and  we  adjourned  to  the  moon- 
light. 

III. 

Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  the  existence  of  Trenton  Falls  was 
not  known.  It  was  discovered,  like  Paestum,  by  a  wandering 
artist,  when  there  was  a  town  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants,  a  canal, 
a  theatre,  a  liberty-pole,  and  forty  churches,  within  fourteen  miles 
of  it.  It  may  be  mentioned  to  the  credit  of  the  Americans,  that 
in  the  "  hardness"  of  character  of  which  travellers  complain,  there 
is  the  soft  trait  of  a  passion  for  scenery;  and,  before  the  fact  of  its 
discovery  had  got  well  into  the  "  Cahawba  Democrat"  and  "  Go- 
the-whole-hog-Courier,"  there  was  a  splendid  wooden  hotel  on  the 
edge  cf  the  precipice,  with  a  French  cook,  soda-water,  and  olives  ; 
and  a  law  was  passed  by  the  Kentucky  Travellers'  Club,  requiring 
a  hanging-bird's  nest  from  the  trees  "  frowning  down  the  awful 
abysm,"  (so  expressed  in  the  regulation),  as  a  qualification  for 
membership.  Thenceforward,  to  the  present  time,  it  has  been  a 
place  of  fashionable  resort  during  the  summer  solstice,  and  the 
pine  woods,  in  which  the  hotel  stands,  being  impervious  to  the  sun, 


^  CRACK  IN  THE  EARTH, 


M  is  prescribed  by  oculists  for  gentlemen  and  ladies  with  weak 
gyes.  If  the  luxury  of  corn-cutters  had  penetrated  to  the  United 
States,  it  might  be  prescribed  for  tender  feet  as  well — the  soft 
floor  of  pine-tassels  spread  under  the  grassless  woods,  being  con- 
sidered an  improvement  upon  Turkey  carpets  and  green-sward. 

Trenton  Falls  is  rather  a  misnomer.  I  scarcely  know  what 
you  would  call  it,  but  the  wonder  of  nature  which  bears  the  name 
is  a  tremendous  torrent,  whose  bed,  for  several  miles,  is  sunk 
fathoms  deep  into  the  earth — a  roaring  and  dashing  stream,  so  far 
below  the  surface  of  the  forest  in  which  it  is  lost,  that  you  would 
think,  as  you  come  suddenly  upon  the  edge  of  its  long  precipice, 
that  it  was  a  river  in  some  inner  world  (coiled  within  ours,  as  we 
in  the  outer  circle  of  the  firmament),  and  laid  open  by  some  Ti- 
tanic throe  that  had  cracked  clear  asunder  the  crust  of  this  shal- 
low earth.  The  idea  is  rather  assisted  if  you  happen  to  see  be- 
low you,  on  its  abysmal  shore,  a  party  of  adventurous  travellers  ; 
for,  at  that  vast  depth,  and  in  contrast  with  the  gigantic  trees  and 
rocks,  the  same  number  of  well-shaped  pismires,  dressed  in  the 
last  fashions,  and  philandering  upon  your  parlor  floor,  would  be 
about  of  their  apparent  size  and  distinctness.  -^ 

They  showed  me  at  Eleusis  the  well  by  which  Proserpine 
ascends  to  the  regions  of  day  on  her  annual  visit  to  the  plains  of 
Thessaly — but,  with  the  genius  loci  at  my  elbow  in  the  shape  of  a 
Grreek  girl  as  lovely  as  Phryne,  my  memory  reverted  to  the  bared 
axle  of  the  earth  in  the  bed  of  this  American  river,  and  I  was  per- 
suaded (looking  the  while  at  the  feroniere  of  gold  sequins  on  the 
Phidian  forehead  of  my  Katinka)  that,  supposing  Hades  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  earth,  you  are  nearer  to  it  by  some  fathoms  at  Trenton 
I  confess,  I  have  had,  since  my  first  descent  into  those  depths,  an 


EARLIER  DAYS.  ^ 


tincomfortable  doubt  of  the  solidity  of  the  globe — how  the  deuce 
it  can  hold  together  with  such  a  crack  in  its  bottom  ! 

It  was  a  night  to  play  Endymion,  or  do  any  Tom-foolery  that 
could  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  moon,  for,  a  more  omnipresent 
and  radiant  atmosphere  of  moonlight  never  sprinkled  the  wilder- 
ness with  silver.  It  was  a  night  in  which  to  wish  it  might  never 
be  day  again — a  night  to  be  enamored  of  the  stars,  and  bid  God 
bless  them  like  human  creatures  on  their  bright  journey — a  night 
to  love  in,  to  dissolve  in — to  do  everything  but  what  night  is  made 
for — sleep  !  Oh  heaven !  when  I  think  how  precious  is  life  in 
such  moments  ;  how  the  aroma — the  celestial  bloom  and  flower  of 
the  soul — the  yearning  and  fast-perishing  enthusiasm  of  youth — 
waste  themselves,  in  the  solitude  of  such  nights,  on  the  senseless 
and  unanswering  air  ;  when  I  wander  alone,  unloving  and  unloved, 
beneath  influences  that  could  inspire  me  with  the  elevation  of  a 
seraph,  were  I  at  the  ear  of  a  human  creature  that  could  summon 
forth  and  measure  my  limitless  capacity  for  devotion — when  I  think 
this,  and  feel  this,  and  so  waste  my  existence  in  vain  yearnings- — 
I  could  extinguish  the  divine  spark  within  me,  like  a  lamp  on  an 
unvisited  shrine,  and  thank  Heaven  for  an  assimilation  to  the  ani- 
mals I  walk  among  !  And  that  is  the  substance  of  a  speech  I 
made  to  Job,  as  a  sequitur  of  a  well-meant  remark  of  his  own,  that 
"  it  was  a  pity  Edith  Linsey  was  not  there."  ,  He  took  the  clause 
about  the  "  animals"  to  himself,  and  I  made  an  apology  for  the 
same,  a  year  after.  We  sometimes  give  our  friends,  quite  inno- 
cently, such  terrible  knocks  in  our  rhapsodies  ! 

Most  people  talk  of  the  sublimity  of  Trenton,  but  I  have  haunt- 
ed it  by  the  week  together  for  its  mere  loveliness.  The  river,  in 
the  heart  of  that  fearful  chasm,  is  the  most  varied  and  beautiful 
assemblage  of  the  thousand  forms  and  shapes  of  running  water, 


RAPJDS  AT  '1  i^ENTON. 


that  I  know  in  the  world.  The  soil,  and  the  deep-striking  roots 
of  the  forest,  terminate  far  above  you,  looking  like  a  black  rim  on 
the  enclosing  precipices  ;  the  bed  of  the  river  and  its  sky-sustain- 
ing walls  are  of  solid  rock,  and,  with  the  tremendous  descent  of  the 
stream — forming  for  miles  one  continuous  succession  of  falls  and 
rapids — the  channel  is  worn  into  curves  and  cavities  which  throw 
the  clear  waters  into  forms  of  inconceivable  brilliancy  and  variety. 
It  is  a  sort  of  half  twilight  below,  with  here  and  there  a  long  beam 
of  sunshine  reaching  down  to  kiss  the  lip  of  an  eddy,  or  form  a 
rainbow  over  a  fall,  and  the  reverberating  and  changing  echoes  :-— 


maintain  a  constant  and  most  soothing  music,  varying  at  every 
step  with  the  varying  phase  of  the  current.  Cascades  of  from 
twenty  to  thirty  feet,  over  which  the  river  flies  with  a  single  and 
hurrying  leap  (not  a  drop  missing  from  the  glassy  and  bending 
sheet),  occur  frequently  as  you  ascend ;  and  it  is  from  these  that 
the  place  takes  its  name.  But  the  falls,  though  beautiful,  are 
only  peculiar  from  the  dazzling  and  unequalled  rapidity  with  which 
the  waters  come  to  the  leap.  If  it  were  not  for  the  leaf  which 
drops  wavering  down  into  the  abysm  from  trees  apparently  painted 
on  the  sky,  and  which  is  caught  away  by  the  flashing  current  as 
if  the  lightning  had  suddenly  crossed  it,  you  would  think  the  vault 
of  the  steadfast  heavens  a  flying  element  as  soon.  The  spot,  in 
that  long  gulf  of  beauty,  that  I  beet  remember,  is  a  smooth  descent 
of  some  hundred  yards,  where  the  river  in  full  and  undivided  vol- 
ume skims  over  a  plane  as  polished  as  a  table  of  scagliola,  looking, 
in  its  invisible  speed,  like  one  mirror  of  gleaming  but  motionless 
crystal.  Just  above,  there  is  a  sudden  turn  in  the  glen,  which 
sends  the  water  like  a  catapult  against  the  opposite  angle  of  the 


EAULtEK  BAtS.  |^9 

rock,  and,  in  the  action  of  years,  it  has  worn  out  a  cr^vern  of  un- 
known depth,  into  which  the  whole  mass  of  the  river  jlunges,  with 
the  abandonment  of  a  flying  fiend  into  hell,  and,  rerppeaiing  like 
the  angel  that  has  pursued  him,  glides  swiftly  h\  t  with  divine 
serenity  on  its  way.  (I  am  indebted  for  that  last  figure  to  Job, 
who  travelled  with  a  Milton  in  his  pocket,  and  had  a  natural  rsdo- 
lence  of"  Paradise  Lost"  in  his  conversation.) 

Much  as  I  detest  water  in  small  quantities,  (to  drink),  I  have  a 
hydromania  in  the  way  of  lakes,  rivers,  and  waterfalls.  It  is,  by 
much,  the  belle  in  the  family  of  the  elements.  Earth  is  never 
tolerable  unless  disguised  in  green.  Air  is  so  thin  as  only  to  be 
visible  when  she  borrows  drapery  of  water  ;  and  Fire  is  so  staring- 
ly  bright  as  to  be  unpleasant  to  the  eyesight ;  but  Water  !  soft, 
pure,  graceful  water  !  there  is  no  shape  into  which  you  can  throw 
her  that  she  does  not  seem  lovelier  than  before.  She  can  borrow 
nothing  of  her  sisters.  Earth  has  no  jewels  in  her  lap  so  brilliant 
as  water's  spray  pearls  and  emeralds ;  Fire  has  no  rubies  like 
what  she  steals  from  the  sunset ;  Air  has  no  robes  like  the  grace 
of  her  fine -woven  and  ever-changing  drapery  of  silver.  A  health 
(in  wine  !)  to  Water  ! 

Who  is  there,  who  did  not  love  some  stream  in  his  youth  } 
Who  is  there,  in  whose  vision  of  the  past  there  does  not  sparkle 
up,  from  every  picture  of  childhood,  a  spring  or  a  rivulet,  woTcn 
through  the  darkened  and  torn  woof  of  first  afi"ections  like  a  thread 
of  unchanged  silver  ?  How  do  you  interpret  the  instinctive  yearn- 
ing with  which  you  search  for  the  river-side  or  the  fountain  in 
every  scene  of  nature — the  clinging  unaware  to  the  river's  course 
when  a  truant  in  the  fields  of  June— tho  dull  void  you  find  in 
every  landscape  of  which  it  is  not  the  ornament  and  the  centre  } 
For  myself,  I  hold  with  the  Greek :  "  Water  is  the  first  principle 


90  A  SURPRISE. 


of  all  things  :  we  were  made  from  it  and  we  shall  be  resolred  into 
it."* 

lY. 

The  awkward  thing  in  all  story-telling  is  transition.  Invention, 
you  do  not  need  if  you  have  experience  ;  for  fact  is  stranger  than 
fiction.  A  beginning  in  these  days  of  startling  abruptness  is  as  sim- 
ple as  open  your  mouth  ;  and  when  you  have  once  begun  you  can  end 
whenever  you  like,  and  leave  the  sequel  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion :  but  the  hinges  of  a  story — the  turning  gracefully  hack  from 
a  digression  (it  is  easy  to  turn  into  one) — is  the  j>as  qui  coute. 
My  education  on  that  point  was  neglected. 

It  was,  as  I  said  before,  a  moonlight  night,  and  Job  and  myself 
having,  like  Sir  Fabian,  "  no  mind  to  sleep,"  followed  the  fashion 
and  the  rest  of  the  company  at  the  inn,  and  strolled  down  to  see 
the  falls  by  moonlight.  I  had  been  there  before,  and  I  took  Job 
straight  to  the  spot,  in  the  bed  of  the  river,  which  I  have  described 
above  as  my  favorite,  and,  after  watching  it  for  a  few  minutes,  we 
turned  back  to  a  dark  cleft  in  the  rock  which  afforded  a  rude  seat, 
and  sat  musing  in  silence. 

Several  parties  had  strolled  past  without  seeing  us  in  our  recess, 
when  two  female  figures,  with  their  arms  around  each  other's 
waists,  sauntered  slowly  around  the  jutting  rock  below,  and  ap- 
proached us,  eagerly  engaged  in  conversation.  They  came  on  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  shadow  which  enveloped  us,  and  turned  to 
look  back  at  the  scene.  As  the  Iiead  nearest  me  was  raised  to 
the  light,  I  started  half  to  my  feet :  it  was  Edith  !  In  the  same 
instaftt  her  voice  of  music  broke  on  my  ear,  and  an  irresistible 
*  The  Ionic  philosophy,  supported  by  Thales. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  gj 


impulse  to  listen  unobserved  drew  me  down  again  upon  my  seat, 
and  Job,  with  a  similar  instinct,  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  It  was  his  favorite  spot!"  said  Edith.  (We  had  been  at 
Trenton  together  years  before.)  "I  stood  here  with  him,  and  I 
wish  he  stood  here  now,  that  I  might  tell  him  what  my  hand  hesi- 
tates to  write." 

"  Poor  Philip  !"  said  her  companion,  whom,  by  the  voice,  I  re- 
cognised as  the  youngest  of  the  Flemings,  "  I  cannot  conceive 
how  you  can  resolve  so  coldly  to  break  his  heart." 

I  felt  a  dagger  entering  my  bosom,  but  still  I  listened.  Edith 
went  on. 

"  Why,  I  will  tell  you,  my  dear  little  innocent.  I  loved  Philip 
Slingsby  when  I  thought  I  was  going  to  die.  It  was  a  fitting  at- 
tachment, for  I  never  thought  to  need,  of  the  goods  of  this  world, 
more  than  a  sick  chamber  and  a  nurse  ;  and  Phil  was  kind-heart- 
ed and  devoted  to  me,  and  I  lived  at  home.  But,  with  returned 
health,  a  thousand  ambitious  desires  have  sprung  up  in  my  heart, 
and  1  find  myself  admii-ed  by  whom  I  will,  and  every  day  growing 
more  selfish  and  less  poetical.  Philip  is  poor,  and  love  in  a  cot- 
tage, though  very  well  for  you  if  you  like  it,  would  never  do  for 
me.  I  should  like  him  very  well  for  a  friend,  for  he  is  gentleman- 
like and  devoted,  but,  with  my  ideas,  I  should  only  make  him 
miserable,  and  so — I  think  I  had  better  put  him  out  of  misery  at 
once — don't  you  think  P^ 

A  half-smothered  groan  of  anguish  escaped  my  lips ;  but  it  was 
lost  in  the  roar  of  the  waters,  and  Edith's  voice,  as  she  walked  on, 
lessened  and  became  inaudible  to  my  ear.  As  her  figure  was  lost 
in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks  beyond,  I  threw  myself  on  the  bosom  of 
my  friend,  and  wept  in  the  unutterable  agony  of  a  crushed  heart. 
I  know  not  how  that  night  was  spent,  but  I  awoke  at  noon  of  the 


90  MEETING  AGAIN. 

next  day,  in  my  bed,  with  Jcb's  hand  clasped  tenderly  in  my 
own. 


V. 

I  kept  my  tryst.  I  was  to  meet  Edith  Linsey  at  Saratoga  in 
July — the  last  month  of  the  probation  by  which  I  had  won  a  right 
to  her  love.  I  had  not  spoken  to  her,  or  written,  or  seen  her 
(save,  unknown  to  her,  in  the  moment  I  have  describedj,  in  the 
three  long  years  to  which  my  constancy  was  devoted.  I  had  gain- 
ed the  usual  meed  of  industry  in  my  profession,  and  was  admitted 
to  its  practice.  I  was  on  the  threshold  of  manhood  ;  and  she  had 
promised,  before  heaven,  here  to  give  me  heart  and  hand. 

I  had  parted  from  her  at  twelve  on  that  night  three  years,  and 
as  the  clock  struck,  I  stood  again  by  her  side  in  the  crowded  ball- 
room of  Saratoga. 

"  Good  God  !  Mr.  Slingsby  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  I  put  out  my 
hand. 

"  Am  I  so  changed  that  you  do  not  know  me,  Miss  Linsey  .?" 
I  asked,  as  she  still  looked  with  a  wondering  gaze  into  my  face — 
pressing  my  hand,  however,  with  real  warmth,  and  evidently  under 
the  control,  for  the  moment,  of  the  feelings  with  which  we  had 
parted. 

"  Changed,  indeed  !  Why,  you  have  studied  yourself  to  a 
skeleton  !     My  dear  Philip,  you  are  ill !'' 

I  was — but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  asked  her  for  a  waltz, 
and  never  before  or  since  came  wit  or  laughter  so  freely  to  my  lip. 
I  was  collected,  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  the  gayest  of  the 
gay ;  and,  when  everybody  had  congratulated  me,  in  her  hearing, 
on  the  school  to  which  I  had  put  my  wits  in  my  long  apprentice- 


EARLIER  DAYS.  93 


ship  to  the  law,  I  retired  to  the  gallery  looking  down  upon  the  gar- 
den, and  cooled  my  brow  and  rallied  my  sinking  heart. 

The  candles  were  burning  low,  and  the  ball  was  nearly  over, 
when  I  entered  the  room  again,  and  requested  Edith  to  take  a  turn 
with  me  on  the  colonnade.  She  at  once  assented,  and  I  could 
feel,  by  her  arm  in  mine,  and  see  by  the  fixed  expression  on  her 
lip,  that  she  did  so  with  the  intention  of  revealing  to  me  what  she 
little  thought  I  could  so  well  anticipate. 

^'  My  probation  is  over,"  I  said,  breaking  the  silence  which  she 
seemed  willing  to  prolong,  and  which  had  lasted  till  we  had  twice 
measured  the  long  colonnade. 

"  It  was  three  years  ago  to-night,  I  think,  since  we  parted." 
She  spoke  in  an  absent  and  careless  tone,  as  if  trying  to  work  out 
another  more  prominent  thought  in  her  mind. 

"  Do  you  find  me  changed  .?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes  !  very !" 

"  But  I  am  more  changed  than  I  seem,  dear  Edith  !" 

She  turned  to  me,  as  if  to  ask  me  to  explain  myself. 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  while  I  tell  you  how  .^" 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?     Certainly.' 

"  Then  listen,  for  I  fear  I  can  scarce  bring  myself  to  repeat 
what  I  am  going  to  say.  When  I  first  learned  to  love  you,  and 
when  I  promised  to  love  you  for  life,  you  were  thought  to  be  dy- 
ing, and  I  was  a  boy.  I  did  not  count  on  the  future,  for  I  de- 
spaired of  your  living  to  share  it  with  me,  and,  if  I  had  done  so,  I 
was  still  a  child,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  I  have  since 
grown  more  ambitious,  and,  I  may  as  well  say  at  once,  more  sel- 
fish and  less  poetical.  You  will  easily  divine  my  drift.  You  are 
poor,  and  I  find  myself,  as  you  have  seen  to-night,  in  a  position 
which  will  enable  me  to  marry  more  to  my  advantage  ;  and,  with 


94  END  OF  A  FIRST  LOVE. 


these  views,  I  am  sure  I  should  only  make  you  miserable  by  ful- 
filling my  contract  with  you,  and  you  will  agree  with  me  that  I 
consult  our  mutual  happiness  by  this  course — don't  you  think  r" 

At  this  instant  I  gave  a  signal  to  Job,  who  approached  and 
made  some  sensible  remarks  about  the  weather ;  and,  after  an- 
other turn  or  two,  I  released  Miss  Linsey's  arm,  and  cautioning 
her  against  the  night  air,  left  her  to  finish  her  promenade  and 
swallow  her  own  projected  speech  and  mine,  and  went  to  bed. 

And  so  ended  my  first  love  ' 


SCOES  OF  FEAR. 


NO.  I. 

THE    DISTURBED    VIGIL. 

•  Antanio.— Get  me  a  conjurer,  I  say !  Inquire  me  out  a  man  that  letB  rat 
devils."— Old  Plat. 

Such  a  night !  It  was  liko  a  festival  of  Dian.  A  burst  of 
a  summer  shower  at  sunset,  with  a  clap  or  two  of  thunder,  had 
purified  the  air  to  an  intoxicating  rareness,  and  the  free  breathing 
of  the  flowers,  and  the  delicious  perfume  from  the  earth  and  grass, 
and  the  fresh  foliage  of  the  new  Spring,  showed  the  delight  and 
sympathy  of  inanimate  Nature  in  the  night's  beauty.  There  was 
no  atmosphere — nothing  between  the  eye  and  the  pearly  moon — 
and  she  rode  through  the  heavens  without  a  veil,  like  a  queen  as 
she  is,  giving  a  glimpse  of  her  nearer  beauty  for  a  festal  favor  to 
the  worshipping  stars. 

I  was  a  student  at  the  famed  university  of  Connecticut,  and  the 
bewilderments  of  philosophy  and  poetry  were  strong  upon  me,  in 
a  place  where  exquisite  natural  beauty,  and  the  absence  of  all 
other  temptation,  secure  to  the  classic  neophite  an  almost  super- 
natural wakefulness  of  fancy.  I  contracted  a  taste  for  the  horri- 
ble in  those  days,  which  still  clings  to  me.  I  have  travelled 
since  then  with  no  object  but  general  observation,  and  have 
dawdled  my  hour  at  courts  and  operas  with  little  interest,  while 


c)6  APTNESS  FOR  ADVENTURE. 


the  sacking  and  drowning  of  a  woman  in  the  Bospliorus,  the  im- 
palement of  a  robber  on  the  Nile,  and  the  insane  hospitals,  from 
Liverpool  to  Cathay,  are  described  in  my  capricious  journal  with 
the  vividness  of  the  most  stirring  adventure. 

There  is  a  kind  of  crystallization  in  the  circumstances  of  one's 
life.  A  peculiar  turn  of  mind  draws  to  itself  events  fitted  to  its 
particular  nucleus,  and  it  is  frequently  a  subject  of  wonder  why 
one  man  meets  with  more  remarkable  things  than  another,  when 
it  is  owing  merely  to  a  difference  of  natural  character. 

It  was,  as  I  was  saying,  a  night  of  wonderful  beauty.  I  was 
watching  a  corpse.  In  that  part  of  the  United  States,  the  dead 
are  never  left  alone  till  the  earth  is  thrown  upon  them ;  and,  as  a 
friend  of  the  family,  I  had  been  called  upon  for  this  melancholy 
service  on  the  night  preceding  the  interment.  It  was  a  death 
which  had  left  a  family  of  broken  hearts  ;  for,  beneath  the  sheet 
which  sank  so  appallingly  to  the  outline  of  a  human  form,  lay  a 
wreck  of  beauty  and  sweetness  whose  loss  seemed  to  the  survivors 
to  have  darkened  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  ethereal  and  touch- 
ing loveliness  of  that  dying  girl,  whom  I  had  known  only  a  hope- 
less victim  of  consumption,  springs  up  in  my  memory  even  yet, 
and  mingles  with  every  conception  of  female  beauty. 

Two  ladies,  friends  of  the  deceased,  were  to  share  my  vigils.  I 
knew  them  but  slightly,  and,  having  read  them  to  sleep  an  hour 
after  midnight,  I  performed  my  half-hourly  duty  of  entering  the 
room  where  the  corpse  lay,  to  look  after  the  lights,  and  then 
strolled  into  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  quiet  of  .the  summer  night. 
The  flowers  were  glittering  in  their  pearl-drops,  and  the  air  was 
breathless. 

The  sight  of  the  long,  sheeted  corpse,  the  sudden  flare  of  lights 
as  the  long  snuffs  were  removed  from  the  candles,  the  stillness  of 


EARLIER  DAYS.  97 


the  close-shuttered  rooiii.  and  my  own  predisposition  to  invest 
death  with  a  supernatural  interest,  had  raised  my  heart  to  my 
thro-it.  I  walked  backward  and  forward  in  the  garden-path  ;  and 
the  black  shadows  beneath  the  lilacs,  and  even  the  glittering  of 
the  glow-worms  within  them,  seemed  weird  and  fearful. 

The  clock  struck,  and  I  re-entered.  My  companions  still 
slept,  and  I  passed  on  to  the  inner  chamber.  I  trimmed  the 
lights,  and  stood  and  looked  at  the  white  heap  lying  so  fearfully 
still  within  the  shadow  of  the  curtains  ;  and  my  blood  seemed  to 
freeze.  At  the  moment  when  I  was  turning  away  with  a  strong 
effort  at  a  more  composed  feeling,  a  noise  like  a  flutter  of  wings, 
followed  by  a  rush  and  a  sudden  silence,  struck  on  my  startled 
ear.  The  street  was  as  quiet  as  death,  and  the  noise,  which  was 
far  too  audible  to  be  a  deception  of  the  fancy,  had  come  from  the 
side  toward  an  uninhabited  wing  of  the  house.  My  heart  stood 
still.  Another  instant,  and  the  fire-screen  was  dashed  down,  and 
a  white  cat  rushed  past  me,  and,  with  the  speed  of  light,  sprang  like 
a  hyena  upon  the  corpse.  The  flight  of  a  vampyre  into  the 
chamber  would  not  have  more  curdled  my  veins.  A  convulsive 
shudder  ran  cold  over  me,  but  recovering  my  self-command,  I 
rushed  to  the  animal  (of  whose  horrible  appetite  for  the  flesh  of 
the  dead  I  had  read  incredulously) ,  and  attempted  to  tear  her 
from  the  body.  With  her  claws  fixed  in  the  breast,  and  a  yovjl 
like  the  wail  of  an  infernal  spirit,  she  crouched  fearlessly  upon  it, 
and  the  stains  already  upon  the  vsheet  convinced  me  that  it  would 
be  impossible  to  remove  her  without  shockingly  disfiguring  the 
corpse.  I  seized  her  by  the  throat,  in  the  hope  of  choking  her  ; 
but,  with  the  first  pressure  of  ni}'  fingers,  she  flew  into  my  face, 
and  the  infuriated  animal  seemed  persuaded  that  it  was  a  con- 
test for  life.  Half  blinded  by  the  fury  of  her  attack,  I  loosed  her 
5 


98  A  WESTERN  STUDENT 


for  a  moment,  and  she  immediately  leaped  again  upon  the  corpse, 
and  had  covered  her  feet  and  face  with  blood  before  I  could  re- 
cover my  hold  upon  her.  The  body  was  no  longer  in  a  situation 
to  be  spared,  and  I  seized  her  with  a  desperate  grasp  to  draw 
her  oflf ;  but,  to  my  horror,  the  half-covered  and  bloody  corpse 
rose  upright  in  her  fangs,  and,  while  I  paused  in  fear,  sat  with 
drooping  arms,  and  head  fallen  with  ghastly  helplessness  over  the 
shoulder.  Years  have  not  removed  that  fearful  spectacle  from 
my  eyes. 

The  corpse  sank  back,  and  I  succeeded  in  throttling  the  mon- 
ster, and  threw  her  at  last,  lifeless,  from  the  window.  I  then 
composed  the  disturbed  limbs,  laid  the  hair  away  once  more 
smoothly  on  the  forehead,  and,  crossing  the  hands  over  the  bosom, 
covered  the  violated  remains,  and  left  them  again  to  their  repose. 
My  companions,  strangely  enough,  slept  on,  and  I  paced  the  gar- 
den-walk alone,  till  the  day,  to  my  inexpressible  relief,  dawned 
over  the  mountains. 


NO.  11. 

THE    MAD    SENIOR. 

I  WAS  called  upon  in  my  senior  year  to  watch  with  an  insane 
student.  He  was  a  man  who  had  attracted  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion in  college.  He  appeared  in  an  extraordinary  costume  at  the 
beginning  of  our  freshman  term,  and  wrote  himself  down  as  Wash- 
ington Greyling,  of ,  an  unheard-of  settlement  somewhere 

beyond  the  Mississippi.  His  coat  and  other  gear  might  have  been 
the  work  of  a  Chickasaw  tailor,  aided  by  the  superintending  taste 
of  some  white  huntsman,  who  remembered  faintly  the  outline  of 


EARLIER  DATS.  99 


habiliments  he  had  not  seen  for  half  a  century.  It  was  a  body  ot 
green  cloth,  eked  out  with  wampum  and  otter-skin,  and  would  have 
been  ridiculous  if  it  had  not  encased  one  of  the  finest  models  of  a 
manly  frame  that  ever  trod  the  earth.  "With  close-curling  black 
hair,  a  fine  weather-browned  complexion,  Spanish  features  (from 
his  mother — a  frequent  physiognomy  in  the  countries  bordering 
on  Spanish  America),  and  the  port  and  lithe  motion  of  a  lion,  he 
was  a  figure  to  look  upon  in  any  disguise  with  warm  admiration. 
He  was  soon  put  into  the  hands  of  a  tailor-proper,  and,  with  the 
facility  which  belongs  to  his  countrymen,  became  in  a  month  the 
best-dressed  man  in  college.  His  manners  were  of  a  gentleman- 
like mildness,  energetic,  but  courteous  and  chivalresque,  and  un- 
like most  savages  and  all  coins,  he  polished  without  "  losing  his 
mark."  At  the  end  of  his  first  term,  he  would  have  been  called 
a  high-bred  gentleman  at  any  court  in  Europe. 

The  opening  of  his  mind  was  almost  as  rapid  and  extraordinary. 
He  seized  everything  with  an  ardor  and  freshness  that  habit  and 
difficulty  never  deadened.  He  was  like  a  man  who  had  tumbled 
into  a  new  star,  and  was  collecting  knowledge  for  a  world  to  which 
he  was  to  return.  The  first  in  all  games,  the  wildest  in  all  ad- 
venture, the  most  distinguished  even  in  the  elegant  society  for 
which  the  town  is  remarkable,  and  unfailingly  brilliant  in  his 
recitations  and  college  performances,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort 
of  admirable  phenouienon,  and  neither  envied  nor  opposed  in 
anything.  I  have  often  thought,  in  looking  on  him,  that  his  sen- 
sations, at  coming  fresh  from  a  wild,  western  prairie,  and,  at  th« 
first  measure  of  his  capacities  with  men  of  better  advantages, 
finding  himself  so  uniformly  superior,  must  have  been  stirringly 
delightful.  It  is  a  wonder  he  never  became  arrogant ;  but  it  was 
the  last  foible  of  which  he  could  have  been  accused. 


100  VIGIL  WITH  A  MADMAN. 


We  were  reading  hard  for  the  honors  in  the  senior  year,  when 
Greyling  suddenly  lost  his  reason.  He  had  not  been  otherwise 
ill,  and  had,  apparently  in  the  midst  of  high  health,  gone  mad  at 
a  moment's  warning.  The  physicians  scarce  knew  how  to  treat 
him.  The  confinement  to  which  he  was  at  first  subjected,  how- 
ever, was  thought  inexpedient,  and  he  seemed  to  justify  their 
lenity  by  the  gentlest  behavior  when  at  liberty.  He  seemed  op- 
pressed by  a  heart-breaking  melancholy.  "We  took  our  turns  in 
guarding  and  watching  with  him,  and  it  was  upon  my  first  night 
of  duty  that  the  incident  happened  which  I  have  thus  endeavored 
to  introduce. 

It  was  scarce  like  a  vigil  with  a  sick  man,  for  our  patient  went 
regularly  to  bed,  and  usually  slept  well.  I  took  my  "  Lucretius" 
and  the  ''  Book  of  the  Martyrs,"  which  was  just  then  my  favorite 
reading,  and,  with  hot  punch,  a  cold  chicken,  books,  and  a  fire,  I 
looked  forward  to  it  as  merely  a  studious  night ;  and,  as  the  wintry 
wind  of  January  rattled  in  at  the  old  college  windows,  I  thrust 
my  feet  into  slippers,  drew  my  dressing-gown  about  me,  and  con- 
gratulated myself  on  the  excessive  comfortableness  of  my  position. 
The  Sybarite's  bed  of  roses  would  have  been  no  temptation. 

It  had  snowed  all  day,  but  the  sun  had  set  with  a  red  rift  in  the 
clouds,  and  the  face  of  the  sky  was  swept  in  an  hour  to  the  clear- 
ness of — I  want  a  comparison — your  own  blue  eye,  dear  Mary  ! 
The  all-glorious  arch  of  heaven  was  a  mass  of  sparkling  stars. 

Greyling  slept,  and  I,  wearied  of  the  cold  philosophy  of  the 
Latin  poet,  took  to  my  "  Book  of  Martyrs."  I  read  on,  and 
read  on.  The  college  clock  struck,  it  seemed  to  me,  the  quarters 
rather  than  the  hours.     Time  flew :  it  was  three. 

"  Horrible  !  most  horrible  !"  I  started  from  my  chair  with  the 
exclamation,  and  felt  as  if  my  scalp   were  self-lifted  from  my 


EARLIER  DAYS.  101 


head.  It  was  a  description,  in  the  harrowing  faithfulness  of  the 
language  of  olden  time,  painting  almost  the  articulate  groans  of  an 
impaled  Christian.  I  clasped  the  old  iron-bound  book,  and 
rushed  to  the  window  as  if  my  heart  were  stifling  for  fresh  air. 

Again  at  the  fire.  The  large  walnut  fagots  had  burnt  to  a  bed 
of  bright  coals,  and  I  sat  gazing  into  it,  totally  unable  to  shake  ofl 
the  fearful  incubus  from  my  breast.  The  martyr  was  there — on 
the  very  hearth — with  the  stakes  scornfully  crossed  in  his  body  ; 
and,  as  the  large  coal  cracked  asunder  and  revealed  the  brightness 
within,  I  seemed  to  follow  the  nerve-rending  instrument  from  hip 
to  shoulder,  and  suffer  with  him,  pang  for  pang,  as  if  the  burning 
redness  were  the  pools  of  his  fevered  blood. 

"  Aha  !" 

It  struck  on  my  ear  like  the  cry  of  an  exulting  fiend. 

"Aha!" 

I  shrunk  into  the  chair  as  the  awful  cry  was  repeated,  and 
looked  slowly  and  with  difficult  courage  over  my  shoulder.  A 
single  fierce  eye  was  fixed  upon  me  from  the  mass  of  bed-clothes, 
and,  for  a  moment,  the  relief  from  the  fear  of  some  supernatural 
presence  was  like  water  to  a  parched  tongue.  I  sank  back,  re- 
lieved, into  the  chair. 

There  was  a  rustling  immediately  in  the  bed,  and,  starting 
again,  I  found  the  wild  eyes  of  my  patient  fixed  steadfastly  upon 
mo.  He  was  creeping  stealthily  out  of  bed.  His  bare  foot 
touched  the  floor,  and  his  toes  worked  upon  it  as  if  he  was  feeling 
its  strength,  and  in  a  moment  he  stood  upright  on  his  feet,  and, 
with  his  head  forward  and  his  pale  face  livid  with  rage,  stepped 
toward  me.  I  looked  to  the  door.  He  observed  the  glance,  and 
in  the  next  instant  he  sprung  clear  over  the  bed,  turned  the  key, 
and  dashed  it  furiously  through  the  window. 

"Now  !"  said  he. 


102  HOT  COALS  ON  A  LUNATJC, 


"Greyling  !"  I  said.  I  had  heard  that  a  calm  and  fixed  gaze 
would  control  a  madman,  and,  with  the  most  difficult  exertion  of 
nerve,  I  met  his  lowering  eye,  and  we  stood  looking  at  each  other 
for  a  full  minute,  like  men  of  marble. 

''Why  have  you  left  your  hed  r"  I  mildly  asked. 

"  To  kill  you  !"  was  the  appalling  answer ;  and,  in  another  mo- 
ment, the  light  stand  was  swept  from  between  us,  and  he  struck 
me  down  with  a  blow  that  would  have  felled  a  giant.  Naked  aa 
he  was,  I  had  no  hold  upon  him,  even  if  in. muscular  strength  I 
had  been  his  match  ;  and,  with  a  minute's  struggle,  I  yielded,  for 
resistance  was  vain.  His  knee  was  now  upon  my  breast  and  his 
left  hand  in  my  hair,  and  he  seemed,  by  the  tremulousness  of  his 
clutch,  to  be  hesitating  whether  he  should  dash  my  brains  out  on 
the  hearth.  I  could  scarce  breathe  with  his  weight  upon  my 
chest,  but  I  tried,  with  the  broken  words  I  could  command,  to 
move  his  pity.  He  laughed,  as  only  maniacs  can,  and  placed  his 
hand  on  my  throat.  Oh  God  !  shall  I  ever  forget  the  fiendish  de- 
liberation with  which  he  closed  those  feverish  fingers  ? 

"  Greyling !  for  God's  sake  !  Greyling  !" 

"  Die  !  curse  you  !" 

In  the  agonies  of  sufibcatiou  I  struck  out  my  arm,  and  almost 
buried  it  in  the  fire  upon  the  hearth.  With  an  expiring  thought, 
I  grasped  a  handful  of  the  red-hot  coals,  and  had  just  strength 
sufficient  to  press  them  hard  against  his  side. 

"  Thank  God  !"  I  exclaimed  with  my  first  breath,  as  my  eyes 
recovered  from  their  sickness,  and  I  looked  upon  the  familiar  ob- 
jects of  my  chamber  once  more. 

The  madman  sat  crouched  like  a  whipped  dog  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room,  gibbering  and  moaning,  with  his  hands  upon 
bis  burnt  side.     I  felt  that  I  had  escaped  death  by  a  miracle. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  IQ^ 


The  door  was  locked,  and,  in  dread  of  another  attack,  I  threw 
up  the  broken  window,  and,  to  my  unutterable  joy,  the  figure  of  a 
man  was  visible  upon  the  snow  near  the  out-buildings  of  the  col- 
lege. It  was  a  charity-student,  risen  before  day  to  labor  in  the 
wood-yard.     I  shouted  to  him,  and  Greyling  leaped  to  his  feet.     . 

"  There  is  time  yet !"  said  the  madman  ;  but,  as  he  came  toward 
me  again  with  the  same  panther-like  caution  as  before,  I  seized  a 
heavy  stone  pitcher  standing  in  the  window-seat,  and,  hurling  it  at 
him  with  a  fortunate  force  and  aim,  he  fell  stunned  and  bleeding 
on  the  floor.  The  door  was  burst  open  at  the  next  moment,  and, 
calling  for  assistance,  we  tied  the  wild  Missourian  into  his  bed, 
bound  up  his  head  and  side,  and  committed  him  to  fresh 
watchers.  #  #  #  *  * 

We  have  killed  bears  together  at  a  Missouri  salt-lick  since 
then  ;  but  I  never  see  "Wash.  Greyling  with  a  smile  off  his  face, 
without  a  disposition  to  look  around  for  the  door. 


NO.  III. 


THE    LUNATIC'S   SKATE. 


I  HAVE  only,  in  my  life,  known  one  lunatic — properly  so  called. 
In  ttie  days  when  I  carried  a  satchel  on  the  banks  of  the  Shaw- 
sheen  (a  river  whose  half-lovely,  half-wild  scenery  is  tied  like  a 
silver  thread  about  my  heart),  Larry  Wynn  and  myself  were  the 
farthest  boarders  from  school,  in  a  solitary  farm-house  on  the  edge 
of  a  lake  of  some  miles  square,  called  by  the  undignified  title  of 
Pomp's  Pond.  An  old  negro,  who  was  believed  by  the  boys  to 
have  come  over  with  Christopher  Columbus,  was  the  only  other 
ttuman  being  within  anything  like  a  neighborhood  of  the  lake  (it 


104  LITERAL  LUNACY.       ^ 


took  its  name  from  him),  and  the  only  approaches  to  its  Traters^ 
girded  in  as  it  was  by  an  almost  impenetrable  forest,  were  the 
path  through  old  Pomp's  clearing,  and  that  by  our  own  door. 
Out  of  school,  Larry  and  I  were  inseparable.  He  was  a  pale,  sad- 
faced  boy,  and,  in  the  first  days  of  our  intimacy,  he  had  confided 
a  secret  to  me  which,  from  its  uncommon  nature,  and  the  exces- 
sive caution  with  which  he  kept  it  from  every  one  else,  bound  me 
to  him  with  more  than  the  common  ties  of  school-fellow  attach- 
ment. AYe  built  wigwams  together  in  the  woods,  had  our  toma- 
hawks made  of  the  same  fashion,  united  our  property  in  fox-traps, 
and  played  Indians  with  perfect  contentment  in  each  other's  ap- 
probation. 

I  had  found  out,  soon  after  my  arrival  at  school,  that  Larr}' 
never  slept  on  a  moonlight  night.  With  the  first  slender  horn 
that  dropped  its  silver  and  graceful  shape  behind  the  hills,  his 
uneasiness  commenced,  and,  by  the  time  its  full  and  perfect  orb 
poured  a  flood  of  radiance  over  vale  and  mountain,  he  was  like 
one  haunted  by  a  pursuing  demon.  At  early  twilight  he  closed 
the  shutters,  stuffing  every  crevice  that  could  admit  a  ray  ;  and 
then,  lighting  as  many  candles  as  he  could  beg  or  steal  from  our 
thrifty  landlord,  he  sat  down  with  his  book  in  moody  silence,  or 
paced  the  room  with  an  uneven  step,  and  a  solemn  melancholy  in 
his  fine  countenance,  of  which,  with  all  my  familiarity  with  him,  I 
was  almost  afraid.  Violent  exercise  seemed  the  only  relief,  and 
when  the  candles  burnt  low  after  midnight,  and  the  stillness  around 
the  lone  farm-house  became  too  absolute  to  endure,  he  would 
throw  up  the  window,  and,  leaping  desperately  out  into  the  moon- 
light, rush  up  the  hill  into  the  depths  of  the  wild  forest,  and  walk 
on  with  supernatural  excitement  till  the  day  dawned.  Faint  and 
pale,  he  would  then  creep  into  his  bed,  and,  bcirgin^  me  lo  make 


EARLIER  DAYS.  105 


his  very  common  and  always  credited  excuse  of  illness,  sleep 
soundly  till  I  returned  from  school.  I  soon  became  used  to  his 
way,  ceased  to  follow  him,  as  I  had  once  or  -twice  endeavored  to 
do,  into  the  forest,  and  never  attempted  to  break  in  on  the  fixed 
and  rapt  silence  which  seemed  to  transform  his  lips  to  marble 
And  for  all  this  Larry  loved  me. 

Our  preparatory  studies  were  completed,  and,  to  our  mutual  de- 
spair, we  were  destined  to  different  universities.  Larry's  father 
was  a  disciple  of  the  great  Channing,  and  mine  a  Trinitarian  of 
uncommon  zeal ;  and  the  two  institutions  of  Yale  and  Harvard 
were  in  the  hands  of  most  eminent  men  of  either  persuasion,  and 
few  are  the  minds  that  could  resist  a  four  years'  ordeal  in  either. 
A  student  was  as  certain  to  come  forth  a  Unitarian  from  one,  as  a 
Calvinist  from  the  other  ;  and,  in  the  New  England  States,  these 
two  sects  are  bitterly  hostile.  So,  to  the  glittering  atmosphere  of 
Channing  and  Everett  went  poor  Larry,  lonely  and  dispirited  ; 
and  I  was  committed  to  the  sincere  zealots  of  Connecticut,  some 
two  hundred  miles  off,  to  learn  Latin  and  Greek,  if  it  pleased 
Heaven,  but  the  mysteries  of  "  election  and  free  grace,"  whether 
or  no. 

Time  crept,  ambled,  and  galloped,  by  turns,  as  we  were  in  love 
or  out,  moping  in  term-time,  or  revelling  in  vacation,  and  gra- 
dually, I  know  not  why,  our  correspondence  had  dropped,  and  the 
four  years  had  come  to  their  successive  deaths,  and  we  had  never 
met.  I  grieved  over  it ;  for  in  those  days  I  believed,  with  a 
schoolboy's  fatuity, 

"  That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem  ;'* 

and  1  loved  Larry  Wynn,  as  I  hope  I  may  never  love  man  or 
woman  again — with  a  pain  at  my  heart.     I  wrote  one  or  two  re- 
5* 


XOe  AMERICAN  SLEIGHING. 

proachful  letters  in  my  senior  years,  but  his  answers  were  over- 
strained, and  too  full  of  protestations  by  half;  and,  seeing  that 
absence  had  done  its  usual  work  on  him,  I  gave  it  up,  and  wrote 
an  epitaph  on  a  departed  friendship.  I  do  not  know,  by  the  way^ 
why  I  am  detaining  you  with  all  this,  for  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  story ;  but,  let  it  pass  as  an  evidence  that  it  is  a  true  one. 
The  climax  of  things  in  real  life  has  not  the  regular  procession  of 
incidents  in  a  tragedy. 

Some  two  or  three  years  after  we  had  taken  "  the  irrevocable 
yoke"  of  life  upon  us,  (not  matrimony,  but  money-making,)  a 
winter  occurred  of  uncommonly  fine  sleighing — sledging  they  call 
it  in  England.  At  such  times  the  American  world  is  all  abroad, 
either  for  business  or  pleasure.  The  roads  are  passable,  at  any 
rate  of  velocity  of  which  a  horse  is  capable  ;  smooth  as  montagnes 
JlusseSj  and  hard  as  is  good  for  hoofs  ;  and  a  hundred  miles  is 
diminished  to  ten,  in  facility  of  locomotion.  The  hunter  brings 
down  his  venison  to  the  cities,  the  western  trader  takes  his  family 
a  hundred  leagues  to  buy  calicoes  and  tracts,  and  parties  of  all 
kinds  scour  the  country,  drinking  mulled  wine  and  "  flip,"  and 
shaking  the  very  nests  out  of  the  fir-trees  with  the  ringing  of  their 
horses'  bells.  You  would  think  death  and  sorrow  were  buried  in 
the  snow  with  the  leaves  of  the  last  autumn. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  undertook,  at  this  time,  a  journey  to  the 
West ;  certainly  not  for  scenery,  for  it  was  a  world  of  waste,  de- 
solate and  dazzling  whiteness,  for  a  thousand  unbroken  miles.  The 
trees  Were  weighed  down  with  snow,  and  the  houses  were  thatched 
and  half  buried  in  it,  and  the  mountains  and  valleys  were  like  the 
vast  waves  of  an  illimitable  sea,  congealed  with  its  yeasty  foam  in 
the  wildest  hour  of  a  tempest.  The  eye  lost  its  power  in  gazing 
on  it.     The  "  spirit-bird,"  that  spread  his  refreshing  green  wings 


EARLIER  DAYS.  IQ? 


before  the  pained  eyes  cf  Thalaba,  would  have  been  an  inestimable 
^ellow  traveller.  The  worth  of  the  eyesight  lay  in  the  purchase 
of  a  pair  of  green  goggles. 

In  the  course  of  a  week  or  too,  after  skimming  over  the  buried 
scenery  of  half  a  dozen  States,  each  as  large  as  Great  Bri- 
tain, (more  or  less,)  I  found  myself  in  a  small  town  on  the 
border  of  one  of  our  western  lakes.  It  was  some  twenty  years 
since  the  bears  had  found  it  thinly  settled  enough  for  their  pur- 
poses, and  now  it  contained,  perhaps,  twenty  thousand  souls. 
The  oldest  inhabitant,  born  in  the  town,  was  a  youth  in  his  minor- 
ity. With  the  usual  precocity  of  new  settlements,  it  had  already 
most  of  the  peculiarities  of  an  old  metropolis.  The  burnt  stumps 
still  stood  about  among  the  houses  ;  but  there  was  a  fashionable 
circle,  at  the  head  of  which  were  the  lawyer's  wife  and  the  mem- 
ber of  Congress's  daughter  ;  and  people  ate  their  peas  with  silver 
forks,  and  drank  their  tea  with  scandal,  and  forgave  men's  many 
sins  and  refused  to  forgive  women's  one^  very  much  as  in  towns 
whose  history  is  written  in  black  letter.  I  dare  say  there  were 
not  more  than  one  or  two  offences  against  the  moral  and  Levitical 
law,   fashionable   in   Europe,   which  had   not   been  committed, 

with    the    authentic    aggravations,   in    the    town   of ;  I 

would  mention  the  name  if  this  were  not  a  true  story. 

Larry  Wynn  (now  Lawi'ence  Wynn,  Esq.,)  lived  here.  He 
had,  as  they  say  in  the  United  States,  "hung  out  a  shingle" 
(Londonice,  put  up  a  sign)  as  attorney-at-law,  and,  to  all  the 
twenty  thousand  innocent  inhabitants  of  the  place,  he  was  the 
oracle  and  the  squire.  He  was  besides  colonel  of  militia,  church- 
warden, and"canal  commissioner  ;  appointments  which  speak  vo- 
lumes for  the  prospects  of  "  rising  young  men"  in  our  flourishing 
republic. 

/ 


108  MALE  FRIENDSHIPS. 


Larry  was  glad  to  see  me — very.  I  was  more  glad  to  see  him 
I  have  a  soft  heart,  and  forgive  a  wrong  generally,  if  it  touches 
neither  my  vanity  nor  my  loves.  I  forgot  his  neglect,  and  called 
him  "  Larry."  By  the  same  token  he  did  not  call  me  "  Phil." 
(There  are  very  few  that  love  me,  jatient  reader  ;  but  those  who 
do,  thus  abbreviate  my  pleasant  name  of  Philip.  I  was  called 
after  the  India.n  sachem  of  that  name,  whose  blood  runs  in  this 
tawny  hand.)  Larry  looked  upon  me  as  a  man.  I  looked  on 
him,  with  all  his  dignities  and  changes,  through  the  sweet  vista  of 
memory — as  a  hoy.  His  mouth  had  acquired  the  pinched  corners 
of  caution  and  mistrust  common  to  those  who  know  their  fellow- 
men  ;  but  I  never  saw  it,  unless  when  speculating  as  I  am  now. 
He  was  to  me  the  pale-faced  and  melancholy  friend  of  my  boy- 
hood ;  and  I  could  have  slept,  as  I  used  to  do,  with  my  arm  around 
his  neck,  and  feared  to  stir  lest  I  should  wake  him.  Had  my  last 
earthly  hope  lain  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  I  could  have  given  it 
to  him,  had  he  needed  it,  but  to  make  him  sleep  ;  and  yet  he 
thought  of  me  but  as  a  stranger  under  his  roof,  and  added,  in  his 
warmest  moments,  a  "  Mr."  to  my  name  !  There  is  but  one  cir- 
cumstance in  my  life  that  has  wounded  me  more.  Memory 
avaunt ! 

Why  should  there  be  no  unchangeableness  in  the  world  ?  why 
no  friendship  .?  or  why  am  I,  and  you,  gentle  reader,  (for  by  youT 
continuing  to  pore  over  these  idle  musings,  you  have  a  heart  too,) 
gifted  with  this  useless  and  restless  organ  beating  in  our  bosoms, 
if  its  thirst  for  love  is  never  to  be  slaked,  and  its  aching  self-ful- 
ness never  to  find  flow  or  utterance  }  I  would  positively  sell  my 
whole  stock  of  affections  for  three  farthings.  Will  you  say 
"  two  ?" 

"  You  are  come  in  good  time,"  said  Larry,  one  morning,  with  a 


EARLIER    DAYS.  109 


half-smile,  *'  and  shall  be  groomsman  to  me.  I  am  going  to  bo 
married." 

"  Married  .?" 

"  Married."  ^^- 

I  repeated  the'^rd  after  bim,  for  I  was  surpised.  lie  bad 
never  opened  hh  lips  about  bis  unhappy  lunacy,  since  my  arrival, 
and  I  liad  felt  hurt  at  this  apparent  unwillingness  to  renew  our 
ancient  cormdence,  but  bad  felt  a  repugnance  to  any  forcing  of  the 
topic  upon  him,  and  could  only  hope  that  be  bad  outgrown  or 
overcome  it.  I  argued,  immediately  on  this  information  of  bis 
intended  marriage,  that  it  must  be  so.  No  man,  in  bis  senses,  I 
thought,  would  link  an  impending  madness  to  the  fate  of  a  confid- 
ing and  lovely  woman. 

He  took  me  into  bis  sleigh,  and  we  drove  to  her  father's  house. 
She  was  a  flower  in  the  wilderness.  Of  a  delicate  form,  as  all 
my  countrywomen  are,  and  lovely,  as  quite  all  certainly  are  not, 
large-eyed,  soft  in  her  manners,  and  yet  less  timid  than  confiding 
and  sister-like — with  a  sliadi  of  melancholy  in  her  smile,  caught, 
perhaps,  with  the  "  trick  of  sadness"  from  himself,  and  a  patri- 
cian sligbtness  of  reserve,  or  pride,  which  nature  sometimes,  in 
very  mockery  of  high  birth,  teaches  her  most  secluded  child — the 
bride  elect  was,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  flower  in  the  wilderness. 
She  was  one  of  those  women  we  sigh  to  look  upon  as  they  pass 
by — as  if  there  went  a  fragment  of  the  wreck  of  some  blessed 
dream. 

The  day  arrived  for  the  wedding,  and  the  sleigh-bells  jingled 
merrily  into  the  village.  The  morning  was  as  soft  and  genial  as 
June,  and  the  light  snow  on  the  surface  of  the  lake  melted,  and 
lay  on  the  breast  of  the  solid  ice  beneath,  giving  it  the  effect  of 
one  white  silver  mirror,  stretching  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon.     It 


no  MADNESS  IN  A  BRIDEGROOM. 


was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  I  was  standing  at  the  window  in  tha 
afternoon,  looking  off  upon  the  shining  expanse,  when  Larry  ap- 
proached, and  laid  his  hand  familiarly  on  my  shoulder. 

"  What  glorious  skating  we  shall  have,"  said  I,  "  if  this  smooth 
water  freezes  to-night !" 

I   turned  the  next  moment  to  look  at  him  ;  for  we  had  not 
skated  together  since  I  went  out,  at  his  earnest  entreaty,  at  mid-'*' 
night,  to  skim  the  little  lake  where  we  had  passed  our  boyhood, 
and  drive  away  the  fever  from  his  brain,  under  the  light  of  a  full 
moon. 

He  remembered  it,  and  so  did  I ;  and  I  put  my  arm  behind  him, 
for  the  color  fled  from  his  face,  and  I  thought  he  would  have  sunk 
to  the  floor. 

''  The  moon  is  full  to-night,"  said  he,  recovering  instantly  to  a 
cold  self-possession. 

I  took  hoM  of  liis  hand  firml}^,  and,  in  as  kind  a  tone  as  I  could 
summon,  spoke  of  mir  oaily  friendship,  and,  apologizing  thus  for 
the  freedom,  asked  if  lie  had  quite  overcome  his  melancholy 
disease.  His  face  worked  with  emotion,  and  he  tried  to  with- 
draw his  hand  from  my  clasp,  and  evidently  wished  to  avoid  an 
answer. 

"  Tell  me,  dear  Larry,"  said  I 

"  Oh  G-od !  no .'"  said  he,  breaking  violently  from  me,  and 
throwing  himself  with  his  face  downward  upon  the  sofa.  The 
tears  streamed  through  his  fingers  upon  the  silken  cushion. 

"  Not  cured }     And  does  she  know  it  .^" 

"No  !  no !  thank  God  !  mi  yet !'' 

I  remained  silent  a  few  minutes,  listening  to  his  suppressed 
moans,  (for  he  seemed  heart-broken  with  the  confession,)  and 
pitying  while  I  inwardly  condemned  him.  And  then  the  picture  of 


EARLIER  DAYS.  m 


that  lovely  and  fond  woman  rose  up  before  me,  and  the  impossibility 
of  concealing  his  fearful  malady  from  his  wife,  and  the  fixed  in- 
sanity in  which  it  must  end,  and  the  whole  wreck  of  her  hopes 
and  his  own  prospects  and  happiness — and  my  heart  grew  sick. 

I  sat  down  by  him,  and,  as  it  was  too  late  to  remonstrate  on 
the  injustice  he  was  committing  toward  her,  I  asked  how  he  came 
to  appoint  the  night  of  a  full  moon  for  his  wedding.  He  gave  up 
his  reserve,  calmed  himself,  and  talked  of  it  at  last  as  if  he  were 
relieved  by  the  communication.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  doomed 
pallor,  the  straining  eye,  and  feverish  hand,  of  my  poor  friend 
during  that  half  hour. 

Since  he  had  left  college  he  had  striven  with  the  whole  energy 
of  his  soul  against  it.  He  had  plunged  into  business — he  had 
kept  his  bed,  resolutely,  night  after  night,  till  his  brain  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  phrensy  with  the  effort — he  had  taken  opium  to  se- 
cure to  himself  an  artificial  sleep  ;  but  he  had  never  dared  to  con- 
fide it  to  any  one,  and  he  had  no  friend  to  sustain  him  in  his  fear- 
ful and  lonely  hours  ;  and  it  grew  upon  him  rather  than  diminish- 
ed. He  described  to  me,  with  the  most  touching  pathos,  how  he 
had  concealed  it  for  years — how  he  had  stolen  out  like  a  thief  to 
give  vent  to  his  insane  restlessness  in  the  silent  streets  of  the 
city  at  midnight,  and  in  the  more  silent  solitudes  of  the  forest — 
how  he  had  prayed,  and  wrestled,  and  wept  over  it — and  finally,, 
how  he  had  come  to  believe  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him,  ex- 
cept in  the  assistance  and  constant  presence  of  some  one  who 
would  devote  life  to  him  in  love  and  pity.  Poor  Larry !  I  put 
up  a  silent  prayer  in  my  heart  that  the  desperate  experiment 
might  not  end  in  agony  and  death. 

The  sun  set,  and,  according  to  my  prediction,  the  wind  changed 


112  THE  BRIDAL. 

suddenly  to  the  nortli,  and  the  whole  surface  of  the  lake,  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  became  of  the  lustre  of  polished  steel.  It  was 
intensely  cold. 

The  fires  blazed  in  every  room  of  the  bride's  paternal  mansion, 
and  I  was  there  early,  to  fulfil  my  office  of  master  of  ceremonies 
at  the  bridal.  My  heart  was  weighed  down  with  a  sad  boding^ 
but  I  shook  ofi"  at  least  the  appearance  of  it,  and  superintended  the 
concoction  of  a  huge  bowl  of  punch,  with  a  merriment  which 
communicated  itself,  in  the  shape  of  most  joyous  hilarity,  to  a 
troop  of  juvenile  relations.  The  house  resounded  with  their 
shouts  of  laughter. 

In  the  midst  of  our  noise  in  the  small  inner  room,  entered 
Larry.  I  started  back,  for  he  looked  more  like  u  demon  possess- 
ed than  a  Christian  man.  He  had  walked  to  the  house  alone  in 
the  moonlight,  not  daring  to  trust  himself  in  company.  I  turned 
out  the  turbulent  troop  about  me,  and  tried  to  dispel  his  gloom, 
for  a  face  like  his,  at  that  moment,  would  have  put  to  flight  the 
rudest  bridal  party  ever  assembled  on  holy  ground.  He  seized  on 
the  bowl  of  strong  spirits  which  I  had  mixed  for  a  set  of  hardy 
farmers,  and,  before  I  could  tear  it  from  his  lips,  had  drank  a 
quantity  which,  in  an  ordinary  mood,  would  have  intoxicated  him 
helplessly  in  an  hour.  He  then  sat  down  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  rose,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  ex- 
citement, and  the  whole  character  of  his  face  utterly  changed.  I 
thought  he  had  gone  wild. 

"  Now,  Phil,"  said  he,  "  now  for  my  bride  !"  And,  with  an 
unbecoming  levity,  he  threw  open  the  door,  and  went  half  dancing 
into  the  room  where  the  friends  were  g-lready  assembled  to  witness 
the  ceremony. 

I  followed  with  fear  and  anxiety.     He  took  his  place  by  the  side 


EARLIER  DAYS.  *  113 


of  tie  fair  creature  on  whom  lie  had  placed  his  hopes  of  life,  and^ 
though  sobered  somewhat  by  the  inipressiveness  of  the  scene,  the 
wild  sparkle  still  danced  in  his  eyes,  and  I  could  see  that  every 
nerve  in  his  frame  was  excited  to  the  last  pitch  of  tension.  If  he 
had  fallen  a  gibbering  maniac  on  the  floor,  I  should  not  have  been 
astonished. 

The  ceremony  proceeded,  and  the  first  tone  of  his  voice  in  the 
response  startled  even  the  bride.  If  it  had  rung  from  the  depths 
of  a  cavern,  it  could  not  have  been  more  sepulchral.  I  looked  at 
him  with  a  shudder.  His  lips  were  curled  with  an  exulting  ex- 
pression, mixed  with  an  indefinable  fear  ;  and  all  the  blood  in  his 
face  seemed  settled  about  his  eyes,  which  were  so  bloodshot  and 
fiery,  that  I  have  ever  since  wondered  he  was  not,  at  the  first 
glance,  suspected  of  insanity.  But  oh !  the  heavenly  sweetness 
with  which  that  loveliest  of  creatures  promised  to  love  and  cherish 
him,  in  sickness  and  in  health  !  I  never  go  to  a  bridal  but  it 
half  breaks  my  heart ;  and,  as  the  soft  voice  of  that  beautiful  girl 
fell  with  its  eloquent  meaning  on  my  ear,  and  I  looked  at  her, 
with  lips  calm  and  eyes  moistened,  vowing  a  love  which  I  knew  to 
be  stronger  than  death,  to  one  who,  I  feared,  was  to  bring  only 
pain  and  sorrow  into  her  bosom,  my  eyes  warmed  with  irrepressible 
tears,  and  I  wept. 

The  stir  in  the  room  as  the  clergyman  closed  his  prayer,  seem- 
ed to  awake  him  from  a  trance.  He  looked  around  with  a  troub- 
led face  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  bride,  he 
suddenly  clasped  his  arms  about  her,  and,  straining  her  violently 
to  his  bosom,  broke  into  an  hysterical  passion  of  tears  and  laugh- 
ter. Then  suddenly  resuming  his  self-command,  he  apologized 
for  the  over-excitement  of  his  feelings,  and  behaved  with  forced 
and  gentle  propriety  till  the  guests  departed. 


114  LUNACY  RETURNED. 


There  way  an  apprehensive  gloom  over  the  sph'its  of  the  small 
bridal  party  left  in  the  lighted  rooms  ;  and,  as  they  gathered  round 
the  fire,  I  approached,  and  endeavored  to  take  a  gay  farewell. 
Larry  was  sitting  with  his  arm  about  his  wife,  and  he  wrung  my 
hand  in  silence,  as  I  said,  "  Good-night,"  and  dropped  his  head 
upon  her  shoulder.  I  made  some  futile  attempt  to  rally  him,  but 
it  jarred  on  the  general  feeling,  and  I  left  the  house. 

It  was  a  glorious  night.  The  clear  piercing  air  had  a  vitreous 
brilliancy,  which  I  have  never  seen  in  any  other  climate,  the  rays 
of  the  moonlight  almost  visibly  splintering  with  the  keenness  of 
the  frost.  The  moon  herself  was  in  the  zenith,  and  there  seemed 
nothing  between  her  and  the  earth  but  palpable  and  glittering 
cold. 

I  hurried  home  :  it  was  but  eleven  o'clock  ;  and,  heaping  up 
the  wood  in  the  large  fireplace,  I  took  a  volume  of  "  Ivanhoe," 
which  had  just  then  appeared,  and  endeavored  to  rid  myself  of 
my  unpleasant  thoughts.  I  read  on  till  midnight ;  and  then,  in  a 
pause  of  the  story,  I  rose  to  look  out  upon  the  night,  hoping,  for 
poor  Larry's  sake,  that  the  moon  was  buried  in  clouds.  The 
house  was  near  the  edge  of  the  lake ;  and,  as  I  looked  down  upon 
the  glassy  waste,  spreading  away  from  the  land,  I  saw  the  dark 
figure  of  a  man  kneeling  directly  in  the  path  of  the  moon's  rays. 
In  another  moment  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  tall,  slight  form  of 
my  poor  friend  was  distinctly  visible,  as,  with  long  and  powerful 
strokes,  he  sped  away  upon  his  skates  along  the  shore. 

To  take  my  own  Hollanders,  put  a  collar  of  fur  around  my 
mouth,  and  hurry  after  him,  was  the  work  of  but  a  minute.  My 
straps  were  soon  fastened  ;  and,  following  in  the  marks  of  the 
sharp  irons  at  the  top  of  my  speed,  I  gained  sight  of  him  in  about 


EARLIER  DAYS.  115 


half  an  hour,  and,  with  great  effort,  neared  him  sufficiently  to 
shout  his  name  with  a  hope  of  being  heard. 

"  Larry  !  Larry  !" 

The  lofty-mountain  shore  gave  back  the  cry  in  repeated  echoes 
•—but  he  redoubled  his  strokes,  and  sped  on  faster  than  before. 
At  my  utmost  speed  I  followed  on  ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  could 
almost  lay  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  I  summoned  my  strength  to 
my  breathless  lungs,  and  shouted  again — "  Larry !  Larry  !" 

He  half  looked  back,  and  the  full  moon  at  that  instant  streamed 
full  into  his  eyes.  I  have  thought  since  that  he  could  not  have 
seen  me  for  its  dazzling  brightness ;  but  I  saw  every  line  of  his 
features  with  the  distinctness  of  daylight,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
them.  A  line  of  white  foam  ran  through  his  half-parted  lips  ;  his 
hair  streamed  wildly  over  his  forehead,  on  which  the  perspiration 
gl  it  tared  in  large  drops  ;  and  every  lineament  of  his  expressive 
face  was  stamped  with  unutterable  and  awful  horror.  He  looked 
back  no  more  ;  but,  increasing  his  speed  with  an  energy  of  which 
{  did  not  think  his  slender  frame  capable,  he  began  gradually  to 
outstrip  me.  Trees,  rocks,  and  hills,  fled  back  like  magic.  My 
limbs  began  to  grow  numb  ;  my  fingers  had  lost  all  feeling,  but  a 
strong  northeast  wind  was  behind  us,  and  the  ice  smoother  than  a 
mirror ;  and  I  struck  out  my  feet  mechanically,  and  still  sped  on 

For  two  hours  we  had  kept  along  the  shore.  The  branches  of 
the  trees  .were  reflected  in  the  polished  ice,  and  the  hills  seemed 
han^-ing  in  tlis  air,  and  floating  past  us  with  the  velocity  of  storm- 
clouds.  Far  down  the  lake,  however,  there  glimmered  the  just 
visible  light  of  a  fire,  and  I  was  thanking  Grod  that  we  were  pro- 
bably approaching  some  human  succor,  when,  to  my  horror,  the 
retreating  figure  before  me  suddenly  darted  off  to  the  left,  and 
made,  swifter  than  before,  toward  the  centre  of  the  icy  waste 


116  CHASE  OF  A  MADMAN. 


Oh,  Grod  !  what  feelings  were  mine  at  that  moment !  Follow  him 
far  I  dared  not ;  for,  the  sight  of  land  once  lost,  as  it  would  be 
almost  instantly  with  our  tremendous  speed,  we  perished,  without 
a  possibility  of  relief. 

He  was  far  beyond  my  voice,  and  to  overtake  him  was  the  only 
hope.  I  summoned  my  last  nerve  for  the  effort,  and,  keeping  him 
in  my  eye,  struck  across  at  a  sharper  angle,  with  the  advantage  of 
the  wind  full  in  my  back.  I  had  taken  note  of  the  mountains,  and 
knew  that  we  were  already  forty  miles  from  home,  a  distance  it 
would  be  impossible  to  retrace  against  the  wind  ;  and  the  thought 
of  freezing  to  death,  even  if  I  could  overtake  him,  forced  itself  ap- 
pallingly upon  me. 

Av/ay  I  flew,  despair  giving  new  force  to  my  limbs,  and  soon 
gained  on  the  poor  lunatic,  whose  efforts  seemed  flagging  and 
faint.  I  neared  him.  Another  struggle  !  I  could  have  dropped 
down  where  I  was,  and  slept,  if  there  were  death  in  the  first 
minute,  so  stiff  and  drowsy  was  every  muscle  in  my  frame. 

"  Larry  !"  I  shouted.     "  Larry  !" 

He  started  at  the  sound,  and  I  could  hear  a  smothered  and 
breathless  shriek,  as,  with  supernatural  strength,  he  straightened 
up  his  bending  figure,  and,  leaning  forward  again,  sped  away  from 
me,  like  a  phantom  on  the  blast. 

1  could  follow  no  longer.     I  stood  otiff  on  my  skates,  still  going 

on  rapidly  before  the  wind,  and  tried  to  look  after  him,  but  the 

frost  had  stiffened  u'y  eyes,  and  there  was  a  mist  before  them,  and 

they  felt  like  glass.     Nothing  was  visible  around  me  but  moonlight 

* 
and  ice,  and,  dimly  and  slowly,  I  began  to  retrace  the  slight  path 

of  semicircles  toward  the  shore.  It  was  painful  work.  The  wind 
seemed  to  divide  the  very  fibres  of  the  skin  upon  my  face.  Vio- 
lent exercise  no  longer  warmed  my  body,  and  I  felt  the  cold  shoot 


EARLIER  DAYS,  117 


ebarply  into  my  loins,  and  bind  across  my  breast  like  a  chain  of 
ice  ;  and,  -with  the  utmost  strength  of  mind  at  my  command,  I 
could  just  resist  the  terrible  inclination  to. lie  down  and  sleep.  I 
forgot  poor  Larry.  Life — dear  life  ! — was  now  my  only  thought ' 
So  selfish  are  we  in  our  extremity ! 

With  difficulty  I  at  last  reached  the  shore,  and  then,  unbutton- 
ing my  coat,  and  spreading  it  wide  for  a  sail,  I  set  my  feet  to- 
gether, and  went  slowly  down  before  the  wind,  till  the  fire  which 
I  had  before  noticed  began  to  blaze  cheerily  in  the  distance.  It 
seemed  an  eternity,  in  my  slow  progress.  Tree  after  tree  threw 
the  shadow  of  its  naked  branches  across  the  way ;  hill  after  hill 
glided  slowly  backward ;  but  my  knees  seemed  frozen  together, 
and  my  joints  fixed  in  ice ;  and,  if  my  life  had  depended  on  strik- 
ing out  my  feet,  I  should  have  died  powerless.  My  jaws  were 
locked,  my  shoulders  drawn  half  down  to  my  kneefe,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes  more,  I  am  well  convinced,  the  blood  would  have  thick- 
ened in  my  veins,  and  stood  still,  for  ever. 

I  could  see  the  tongues  of  the  flames — I  counted  the  burning 
fagots — a  form  passed  between  me  and  the  fire — I  struck,  and  fell 
prostrate  on  the  snow ;  and  I  remember  no  more. 

The  sun  was  dartino;  a  slant  beam  throuo;h  the  trees  when  I 
awoke.  The  genial  warmth  of  a  large  bed  of  embers  played  on 
my  cheek,  a  thick  blanket  enveloped  me,  and  beneath  my  head 
was  a  soft  cushion  of  withered  leaves.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire  lay  four  Indians  wrapped  in  their  blankets,  and,  with  her 
head  on  her  knees,  and  her  hands  clasped  over  her  ankles,  sat  an 
Indian  woman,  who  had  apparently  fallen  asleep  upon  her  watch. 
The  stir  I  made  aroused  her,  and,  as  she  piled  on  fresh  fagots,  and 
kindled  them  to  a  bright  blaze  with  a  handful  of  leaves,  drowsi- 


118  DEATH  ON  THE  BRIDAL  NIGHT. 

* 

ness  came  over  me  again,  and  I  wrapped  the  blanket  about  mo 
more  closely,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  sleep. 

I  awoke  refreshed.  It  nmst  have  been  ten  o'clock,  by  the  sun. 
The  Indians  were  about,  busy  in  various  occupations,  and  the 
woman  was  broiling  a  slice  of  deer's  flesh  on  the  coals.  She  offer- 
ed it  to  me  as  I  rose  ;  and,  having  eaten  part  of  it  with  a  piece  o! 
cake  made  of  meal,  I  requested  her  to  call  in  the  men,  and,  with 
offers  of  reward,  easily  induced  them  to  go  with  me  in  search  of 
my  lost  friend. 

We  found  him,  as  I  had  anticipated,  frozen  to  death,  far  out  on 
the  lake.  The  Indians  tracked  him  by  the  marks  of  his  skate- 
irons,  and,  from  their  appearance,  he  had  sunk  quietly  down,  pro- 
bably drowsy  and  exhausted,  and  had  died  of  course  without  pain. 
His  last  act  seemed  to  have  been  under  the  influence  of  his  strange 
madness,  for  he  lay  on  his  face,  turned  from  the  quarter  of  the 
setting  moon. 

We  carried  him  home  to  his  bride.  Even  the  Indians  were  af- 
fected by  her  uncontrollable  agony.  I  cannot  describe  that  scene, 
familiar  as  I  am  with  pictures  of  horror. 

I  made  inquiries  with  respect  to  the  position  of  his  bridal 
chamber.  There  were  no  shutters^  and  the  moon  streamed 
broadly  into  it :  and,  after  kissing  his  shrieking  bride  with  the  vio- 
lence of  a  madman,  he  sprang  out  of  the  room,  with  a  terrific 
scream,  and  she  saw  him  no  more  till  he  lay  dead  on  his  bridal 
bed. 


INCIDENTS  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

M.  Chabert,  the  fire-eater,  would  have  found  New  York  un^ 
comfortable.  I  would  mention  the  height  of  the  thermometer,  but 
for  an  aversion  I  have  to  figures.  Broadway,  at  noon,  had  been 
known  to  fry  soles. 

I  had  fixed  upon  the  first  of  August  for  my  annual  trip  to 
Saratoga — and,  with  a  straw  hat,  a  portmanteau  and  a  black  boy, 
was  huddled  into  the  "  rather-faster-than-lightning"  steamer, 
"  North  America,"  with  about  seven  hundred  other  people,  like 
myself,  just  in  time.  Some  hundred  and  fifty  gentlemen  and  la- 
dies, thirty  seconds  too  late,  stood  "  larding"  the  pine  chips  upon 
the  pier,  gazing  after  the  vanishing  boat  through  showers  of  per- 
spiration. Away  we  "  streaked"  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  in  the 
hour  against  the  current,  and,  by  the  time  I  had  penetrated  to  the 
baggage-closet,  and  seated  \\^illiam  Wilberforce  upon  my  port- 
manteau, with  orders  not  to  stir  for  eleven  hours  and  seven 
minutes,  we  were  far  up  the  Hudson,  opening  into  its  hills  and 
rocks,  like  a  witches'  party  steaming  through  the  Hartz  in  a 
cauldron. 

A  North-river  steamboat,  as  a  Vermont  boy  would  phrase  it, 
is  another  guess  sort  o'  thing  from  a  Britisher.  A  coal-barge  and 
an  eight-oars  on  the  Thames  are  scarce  more  dissimilar.  Built 
for  smooth  water  only,  our  river  boats  are  long,  shallow,  and 
graceful,  of  the  exquisite  proportions  of  a  pleasure-yacht,  and 


120  PARISIAN-ISM  IN  AMERICA, 


paintefl  as  brilliantly  and  fantastically  as  an  Indian  shell.  With 
her  bow  just  leaning  up  from  the  surface  of  the  stream,  her  cut- 
water throwing  oflf  a  curved  and  transparent  sheet  from  either  side, 
her  white  avrnings,  her  magical  speed,  and  the  gay  spectacle  of  a 
thousand  well-dressed  people  on  her  open  decks,  I  know  nothing 
prettier  than  the  vision  that  shoots  by  your  door,  as  you  sit  smok- 
ing in  your  leaf-darkened  portico  on  the  bold  shores  of  the 
Hudson. 

The  American  edition  of  Mrs.  Trollope  (several  copies  of  which 
are  to  be  found  in  every  boat,  serving  the  same  purpose  to  the 
feelings  of  the  passengers  as  the  escape-valve  to  the  engine)  lay 
on  a  sofa  beside  me,  and  taking  it  up,  as  to  say,  "  I  will  be  let 
alone,"  I  commenced  dividing  my  attention,  in  my  usual  quiet 
way,  between  the  varied  panorama  of  rock  and  valley  flying  back- 
ward in  our  progress,  and  the  as  varied  multitude  about  me. 

For  the  mass  of  the  women,  as  far  as  satin  slippers,  hats, 
dresses  and  gloves  could  go,  a  Frenchman  might  have  fancied 
himself  in  the  midst  of  a  transplantation  from  the  Boulevards. 
In  London,  French  fashions  are  in  a  manner  Anglified  :  but  an 
American  woman  looks  on  the  productions  of  Herbault,  Boivin, 
and  Maneuri,  as  a  translator  of  the  Talmud  on  the  inspired  text. 
The  s\i(Ait  ficrure  and  small  feet  of  the  race  rather  favor  the  resem- 

O  D 

blance  ;  and  a  French  milliner,  who  would  probably  come  to 
America  expecting  to  see  bears  and  buffaloes  prowling  about  the 
landing-place,  would  rub  her  eyes  in  New  York,  and  imagine  she 
was  still  in  France,  and  had  crossed,  perhaps,  only  the  broad  part 
of  the  Seine. 

The  men  were  a  more  original  study.  Near  me  sat  a  Kentuck- 
ian  on  three  chairs.  He  had  been  to  the  metropolis,  evidently  for 
the  first  time,  and  had  "  looked  round  sharp."     In  a  fist  of  no 


EARLIER  DAYS.  ]2l 


^ery  delicate  proportions,  was  crushed  a  pair  of  French  kid-gloves, 
which,  if  they  fulfilled  to  him  a  glove's  destiny,  would  flatter  "  the 
rich  man"  that  "  the  camel"  might  yet  give  him  the  rec[uired  pre- 
cedent. His  hair  had  still  the  traces  of  having  been  astonished 
with  curling-tongs,  and  across  his  Atlantean  breast  was  looped,  in 
a  complicated  zig-zag,  a  chain  that  must  have  cost  him  a  wilder- 
ness of  racoon-skins.  His  coat  was  evidently  the  production  of 
a  Mississippi  tailor,  though  of  the  finest  English  material ;  his 
shirt-bosom  was  ruffled  like  a  swan  with  her  feathers  full  spread, 
and  a  black  silk  cravat,  tied  in  a  kind  of  a  curse-me-if-1-care 
sort  of  a  knot,  flung  out  its  ends  like  the  arms  of  an  Italian  impro- 
visator e.  With  all  this  he  was  a  man  to  look  upon  with  respect 
His  under  jaw  was  set  up  to  its  fellow  with  an  habitual  determina- 
tion that  would  throw  a  hickory-tree  into  a  shiver ;  but  frank  good- 
nature, and  the  most  absolute  freedom  from  suspicion,  lay  at 
large  on  his  Ajacean  features,  mixed  with  an  earnestness  that 
commended  itself  at  once  to  your  liking. 

In  a  retired  corner,  near  the  wheel,  stood  a  group  of  Indians, 
as  motionless  by  the  hour  together  as  figures  carved  in  ross/)  antico. 
They  had  been  on  their  melancholy  annual  visit  to  the  now-culti- 
vated shores  of  Connecticut,  the  burial  place,  but  unforgotten  and 
once  wild  home  of  their  fathers.  With  the  money  given  them  by 
the  romantic  persons  whose  sympathies  are  yearly  moved  by  these 
stern  and  poetical  pilgrims,  the}-  had  taken  a  passage  in  the  "  fire- 
canoe,"  which  would  set  them  two  hundred  miles  on  their  weary 
journey  back  to  the  prairies.  Tlicir  Apollo-like  forms  loosely 
dressed  in  blankets,  their  gaudy  wampTim  belts  and  feathers,  the 
muscular  arm  and  close  clutch  upon  the  rifle,  the  total  absence  of 
surprise  at  the  unaccustomed  wonders  about  them,  and  the  lower- 
ing and  settled  scorn  and  dislike  expressed  in  then-  copper  faces, 


122  INDIANS  AND  WESTERNERS. 

would  have  powerfully  impressed  a  European.  The  only  person 
on  whom  they  deigned  to  cast  a  glance  was  the  Kentuckian,  and 
at  him  they  occasionally  stole  a  look,  as  if,  through  all  his  metro- 
politan finery,  they  recognized  metal  with  whose  ring  they  were 
familiar. 

There  were  three  foreigners  on  board,  two  of  them  companions^ 
and  one  apparently  alone.  With  their  coats  too  small  for  them, 
their  thick-soled  boots  and  sturdy  figures,  collarless  cravats,  and 
assumed  unconsciousness  of  the  presence  of  another  living  soul, 
they  were  recognizable  at  once  as  Englishmen.  To  most  of  the 
people  on  board  they  probably  appeared  equally  well-dressed,  and 
of  equal  pretensions  to  the  character  of  gentlemen ;  but  any  one 
who  has  made  observations  between  Temple  Bar  and  the  steps  of 
Crockford's,  would  easily  resolve  them  into  two  Birmingham  bag- 
men "  sinking  the  shop,"  and  a  quiet  gentleman  on  a  tour  of  in- 
formation. 

The  only  other  persons  I  particularly  noted  were  a  southerner, 
probably  the  son  of  a  planter  from  Alabama,  and  a  beautiful  girl, 
dressed  in  singularly  bad  taste,  who  seemed  his  sister.  I  knew 
the  "  specimen"  well.  The  indolent  attitude,  the  thin,  but  pow- 
erfully-jointed frame,  the  prompt  politeness,  the  air  of  superiority 
acquired  from  constant  command  over  slaves,  the  mouth  habitu- 
ally flexible  and  looking  eloquent  even  in  silence,  and  the  eye 
in  which  slept  a  volcano  of  violent  passions,  were  the  marks  that 
showed  him  of  a  race  that  I  had  studied  much,  and  preferred  to 
all  the  many  and  distinct  classes  of  my  countrymen.  His  sister 
was  of  the  slightest  and  most  fragile  figure,  graceful  as  a  fawn, 
but  with  no  trace  of  the  dancing  master's  precepts  in  her  motions, 
vivid  in  her  attention  to  everything  about  her,  and  amused  with 
all  she  aaw  ;  a  copy  of  Lalla  Rookh  sticking  from   the  pocket  of 


EARLIER  DAYS.  133 


her  French  apron,  a  number  of  gold  chains  hung  outside  her  trav- 
elling habit,  and  looped  to  her  belt,  and  a  glorious  profusion  of 
dark  curls  broken  loose  from  her  combs  and  floating  unheeded  over 
her  shoulders. 

Toward  noon  we  rounded  West  Point,  and  shot  suddenly  into 
the  overshadowed  gorge  of  the  mountains,  as  if  we  were  dashing 
into  the  vein  of  a  silver  mine,  laid  open  and  molten  into  a  flowing 
river  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  (The  figure  should  be  Montgome- 
ry's ;  but  I  can  in  no  other  way  give  an  idea  of  the  sudden  dark- 
ening of  the  Hudson,  and  the  underground  effect  of  the  sharp 
over-hanging  mountains  as  you  sweep  first  into  the  Highlands.) 

The  solitary  Englishman,  who  had  been  watching  the  Southern 
beauty  with  the  greatest  apparent  interest,  had  lounged  over  to  her 
side  of  the  boat,  and,  with  the  instinctive  knowledge  that  women 
have  of  character,  she  had  shrunk  from  the  more  obtrusive  at- 
tempts of  the  Brummagems  to  engage  her  in  conversation,  and 
had  addressed  some  remark  to  him,  which  seemed  to  have  advan- 
ced them  at  once  to  acquaintances  of  a  year.  They  were  admir- 
ing the  stupendous  scenery  together,  a  moment  before  the  boat 
stopped  for  a  passenger,  off  a  small  town  above  the  point.  As 
the  wheels  were  checked,  the^e  was  a  sudden  splash  in  the  water, 
and  a  cry  of  "  a  lady  overboard  !"  I  looked  for  the  fair  creature 
who  had  been  standing  before  me,  and  she  was  gone.  The  boat 
was  sweeping  on,  and,  as  I  darted  to  the  railing,  I  saw  the  gurgling 
eddy  where  something  had  just  gone  down  ;  and,  in  the  next  mi- 
nute, the  Kentuckian  and  the  youngest  of  the  Indians  rushed  to- 
gether to  the  stern,  and  clearing  ihe  taffrail  with  tremendous  leaps, 
dived  side  by  side  into  the  very  centre  of  the  foaming  circle. 
The  Englishman  had  coolly  seized  a  rope,  and,  by  the  time  they 
reappeared,  stoed  on  the  railing  with  a  coil  in  his  hand,  and  flung 


124  PLUNGE  FOR  A  LADY. 


it  with  accurate  calculation  directly  over  them.  With  immovahly 
grave  faces,  and  eyes  blinded  witli  water,  the  two  divers  rose, 
holding  high  between  them — a  large  pine  fiigot !  Shouts  of  laugh- 
ter pealed  from  the  boat,  and  the  Kentucldan,  discovering  his 
error,  gave  the  log  an  indignant  fling  behind,  and,  taking  hold  of 
the  rope,  lay  quietly  to  be  drawn  in  :  while  the  Indian,  disdaining 
assistance,  darted  through  the  wake  of  the  boat  with  arroivy  swift- 
ness, and  sprang  up  the  side  with  the  agility  of  a  tiger-cat.  The 
lady  reappeared  from  the  cabin  as  they  jumped  dripping  upon  the 
deck ;  the  Kentuckian  shook  himself,  and  sat  down  in  the  sun  to 
dry  ;  and  the  graceful  and  stern  Indian,  too  proud  even  to  put 
the  wet  hair  away  from  his  forehead,  resumed  his  place,  and  fold- 
ed his  arms,  as  indifferent  and  calm,  save  the  suppressed  heaving 
of  his  chest,  as  if  he  had  never  stirred  from  his  stone-like  pos- 
ture. 

An  hour  or  two  more  brought  us  to  the  foot  of  the  Catskills, 
and  here  the  boat  lay  alongside  the  pier,  to  discharge  those  of 
her  passengers  who  were  bound  to  the  House  on  the  mountain. 
A  hundred  or  more  moved  to  the  gangway,  at  the  summons  to  get 
ready,  and  among  them  the  Southerners  and  the  Kentuckian.  I 
had  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in  our  fair  fellow-passenger,  and  I 
suddenly  determined  to  join  their  party — a  resolution  which  the 
j^inglishman  seemed  to  come  to,  at  the  same  moment,  and  proba- 
bly for  the  same  reason. 

We  slept  at  the  pretty  village  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and,  the 
next  day,  made  the  twelve  hours'  ascent,  through  glen  and  forest, 
our  way  skirted  with  the  most  gorgeous  and  odorent  flowers,  and 
turned  aside  and  towered  over  by  the  trees  whose  hoary  and  moss- 
covered  trunks  would  have  stretched  the  conceptions  of  the 
''  Savage  Rosa.'     Everything  that  was  not  lovely  was  gigantesque 


EARLIER  DAYS.  125 

and  awful.  The  rocks  were  split  with  the  visible  impress  of  the 
Almighty  Power  that  had  torn  them  apart,  and  the  daring  and 
dizzy  crags  spurred  into  the  sky,  as  if  the  arms  of  a  buried  and 
phrensied  Titan  were  thrusting  them  from  the  mountain's  bosom. 
It  gave  one  a  kind  of  maddening  desire  to  shout  and  leap — the 
energy  with  which  it  filled  the  mind  so  out-measured  the  power 
of  the  frame. 

Near  the  end  of  our  journey,  we  stopped  together  on  a  jutting 
rock,  to  look  back  on  the  obstacles  we  had  overcome.  The  view 
extended  over  forty  or  fifty  miles  of  vale  and  mountain,  and,  with 
a  half-shut  eye,  it  looked,  in  its  green  and  lavish  foliage,  like  a 
near  and  unequal  bed  of  verdure,  while  the  distant  Hudson  crept 
through  it  like  a  half-hid  satin  riband,  lost  as  if  in  clumps  of  moss 
among  the  bryken  banks  of  the  highlands.  I  was  trying  to  fix  the 
eye  of  my  companion  upon  West  Point,  when  a  steamer,  with  its 
black  funnel  and  retreating  line  of  smoke,  issued  as  if  from  the 
bosom  of  the  hills  into  an  open  break  of  the  river.  It  was  as  small, 
apparently,  as  the  white  hand  that  pointed  to  it  so  rapturously. 

"  Oh  !''  said  the  half-breathless  girl,  "is  it  not  like  some  fairy 
bark  on  an  eastern  stream,  with  a  spice-lamp  alight  in  its  prow  ?" 

"  More  like  an  old  shoe  afloat,  with  a  cigar  stuck  in  it,"  inter- 
rupted Kentucky. 

As  the  sun  began  to  kindle  into  a  blaze  of  fire, — the  tumultuous 
masses,  so  peculiar  to  an  American  sky,  turning  every  tree  and 
rock  to  a  lambent  and  rosy  gold, — we  stood  on  the  broad  platform 
on  which  the  house  is  built,  braced  even  beyond  weariness  by 
the  invigorating  and  rarified  air  of  the  mountain.  A  hot  supper 
and  an  early  pillow,  with  the  feather  beds  and  blankets  of  win- 
ter, were  unromantic  ckcumstances,  but  I  am  not  aware  that  any 


126  CAUTERSKILL  FALLS. 


one  of  the  party  made  any  audible  objection  to  tliem  ;  I  sat  next 
the  Kentuckian  at  table,  and  can  answer  for  two. 

A  mile  or  two  back  from  the  Mountain-House,  on  nearly  the 
same  level,  the  gigantic  forest  suddenly  sinks  two  or  three  hun- 
dred feet  into  the  earth,  forming  a  tremendous  chasm,  over  which 
a  bold  stag  might  almost  leap,  and  above  which  the  rocks  hang  on 
either  side  with  the  most  threatenino;  and  fj-ownins:  e'randeur.  A 
mountain-stream  creeps  through  the  forest  to  the  precipice,  and 
leaps  as  suddenly  over,  as  if,  Arethusa-like,  it  fled  into  the  earth 
from  the  pursuing  steps  of  a  satyr.  Thirty  paces  from  its  brink, 
you  would  never  suspect,  but  for  the  hollow  reverberation  of  the 
plunging  stream,  that  anything  but  a  dim  and  mazy  wood  was 
within  a  day's  journey.  It  is  visited  as  a  great  curiosity  in  scen- 
ery, under  the  name  of  Cauterskill  Falls. 

We  were  all  on  the  spot  by  ten  the  next  morning,  after  a  fa- 
tiguing tramp  through  the  forest ;  for  the  Kentuckian  had  reject- 
ed the  offer  of  a  guide,  undertaking  to  bring  us  to  it  in  a  straight 
line  by  only  the  signs  of  the  water-course.  The  caprices  of  the 
little  stream  had  misled  him,  however,  and  we  arrived  half-dead 
with  the  fatigue  of  our  cross-marches. 

I  sat  down  on  the  bald  edge  of  the  precipice^  and  suffered  my 
more  impatient  companions  to  attempt  the  difficult  and  dizzy  de- 
scent before  me.  The  Kentuckian  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  fol- 
lowed daringly  by  the  Southerner;  and  the  Englishman,  thoroughly 
enamored  of  the  exquisite  child  of  nature,  who  knew  no  reserve 
beyond  her  maidenl}^  modesty,  devoted  himself  to  her  assistance, 
and  compelled  her  with  anxious  entreaties  to  descend  more  cau- 
tiously. I  lay  at  my  length  as  they  proceeded,  and,  with  my  head 
over  the  projecting  edge  of  the  most  prominent  crag,  watched  them 


EARLIER  DAYS.  137 


in  a  giddy  droam,  half-stupifiod  by  the  grandeur  of  the  scene,  half 
interested  in  their  motions. 

They  reached  the  bottom  of  the  glen  at  last,  and  shouted  to  the 
two  "who  had  gone  before,  but  they  had  followed  the  dark  passage 
of  the  stream  to  find  its  vent,  and  were  beyond  sight  or  hearing. 

After  sitting  a  minute  or  two,  the  restless,  but  over-fatigued 
girl,  rose  to  go  nearer  the  fall,  and  I  was  remarking  to  myself  the 
sudden  heaviness  of  her  steps,  when  she  staggered,  and,  turning 
toward  her  companion,  fell  senseless  into  his  arms.  The  close- 
ness of  the  air  below,  combined  with  over-exertion,  had  been  too 
much  for  her. 

The  small  hut  of  an  old  mv.n  who  served  as  a  guide  stood  a 
little  back  from  the  g'''n,  and  1  had  rushed  into  it,  and  was  on  the 
fii'st  step  of  the  descent  with  a  flask  of  spirits,  when  a  cry  from 
the  opposite  crag,  in  the  husky  and  choking  scream  of  infuriated 
passion,  suddenly  arrested  me  On  the  edge  of  the  yawning 
chasm,  gazing  down  into  it  with  a  livid  and  death-like  paleness, 
stood  the  Southerner.  I  mechanically  followed  his  eye.  His  sis- 
ter lay  on  her  back  upon  a  flat  rock  immediately  below  him,  and 
over  her  knelt  the  Enghshman,  loosening  the  dress  that  pressed 
close  upon  her  throat,  and  with  his  face  so  near  to  hers  as  to  con- 
ceal it  entirely  from  the  view.  I  felt  the  brother's  misapprehen- 
sion at  a  glance,  but  my  tongue  clung  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  ; 
for  in  the  madness  of  his  fury  he  stood  stretching  clear  over  the 
brink,  and  every  instant  I  looked  to  see  him  plunge  headlong. 
Before  I  could  recover  my  breath,  he  started  back,  gazed  wildly 
round,  and  seizing  upon  a  huge  fragment  of  rock,  heaved  it  up 
with  supernatural  strength,  and  hui-led  it  into  the  abyss.  Giddy 
and  sick  with  horror,  I  turned  away  and  covered  up  my  eyes.  I 
felt  assured  he  had  dashed  them  to  atoms. 


128  NARROW  ESCAPE. 


The  lion  roar  of  the  Kentuckian  was  the  first  sound  that  fol 
lowed  the  thundering  crash  of  the  fragments. 

"  Hallo,  youngster  !  what  in  tarnation  are  you  arter  ?  You've 
killed  the  gal,  by  gosh  !" 

The  next  moment  I  heard  the  loosfened  stones  as  he  went  plung- 
ing down  into  the  glen,  and,  hurrying  after  him  with  my  restora- 
tive, I  found  the  poor  Englishman  lying  senseless  on  the  rocks,  and 
the  fainting  girl,  escaped  miraculously  from  harm,  struggling 
slowly  to  her  senses. 

On  examination,  the  new  sufierer  appeared  only  stunned  by  a 
small  fragment  which  had  struck  him  on  the  temple,  and  the 
Kentuckian,  taking  him  up  in  his  arms  like  a  child,  strode 
through  the  spray  of  the  fall,  and  held  his  head  under  the  de- 
scending torrent  till  he  kicked  lustily  for  his  freedom.  With  a 
draught  from  a  flask,  the  pale  Alabamian  was  soon  perfectly  re- 
stored, and  we  stood  on  the  rock  together,  looking  at  each  other 
like  people  who  had  survived  an  earthquake. 

"We  climbed  the  ascent  and  found  the  brother  lying  with  his 
face  to  the  earth,  beside  himself  with  his  conflicting  feelings. 
The  rough  tongue  of  the  Kentuckian  to  whom  I  had  explained 
the  apparent  cause  of  the  rash  act,  soon  cleared  up  the  tempest, 
and  he  joined  us  presently,  and  walked  back  by  his  sister's  side 
in  silence. 

We  made  ourselves  into  a  party  to  pass  the  remainder  of  the 
summer  on  the  Lakes,  unwillingly  letting  off  the  Kentuckian,  who 
was  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  propose  himself  for  the  Legislature 


PEDLAR   KARL. 

"  Which  manner  of  digression,  however,  some  dislike  as  frivolous  ond  impertinent, 
yet  I  am  of  Beroaldus  his  opinion,  such  digressions  do  mightily  delight  and  refresh  a 
weary  reader  :  they  are  like  sauce  to  a  bad  stomach,  and  I  therefore  do  most  wil- 
lingly use  them.''— BcRTOjr. 

"  Bienheureuses  les  imparfaites  ;  a  elles  appartientle  royaume  de  I'amour. — L'Evaw- 

GILE    DES  Fe.MMES. 

I  AM  not  sure  whether  Lebanon  Springs,  the  scene  of  a  ro- 
mantic story  I  am  about  to  tell,  belong  to  New  York  or  Massa- 
chusetts. It  is  not  very  important,  to  be  sure,  in  a  country 
where  people  take  Vermont  and  Patagonia  to  be  neighboring 
States  ;  but  I  have  a  natural  looseness  in  geography,  which  I  take 
pains  to  mortify  by  exposure.  Very  odd  that  I  should  not  re- 
member more  of  the  spot  where  I  took  my  first  lessons  in  philan- 
dering ! — where  I  first  saw  you,  brightest  and  most  beautiful, 
A.  D.,  (not  Anno  JDomini,)  in  your  white  morning  frocks  and 
black  French  aprons  ! 

Lebanon  Springs  are  the  rage  about  once  in  three  years.  I 
must  let  you  into  the  secret  of  these  things,  gentle  reader  ;  for, 
perhaps  I  am  the  only  individual  existing,  who  has  penetrated 
the  mysteries  of  the  four  dynasties  of  American  fashion.  In  the 
fourteen  millions  of  inhabitants  in  the  United  States,  there  are 
precisely  four  authenticated  and  undisputed  aristocratic  families. 
There  is  one  in  Boston,  one  in  New  York,  one  in  Philadelphia. 
6* 


130  CYPHERING  BY  TREES. 


and  one  in  Baltimore.  By  a  blessed  Providence,  they  are  not 
all  in  one  State,  or  we  should  have  a  civil  war  and  a  monarchy  in 
no  time.  With  two  hundred  miles'  interval  between  them,  they 
agree  passably^  and  generally  meet  at  one  or  another  of  the  three 
watering-places  of  Saratoga,  Ballston,  or  Lebanon.  Their  meet- 
ing is  as  mysterious  as  the  process  of  crystallization,  for  it  is  not 
by  agreement.  You  must  explain  it  by  some  theory  of  homoeo- 
pathy or  magnetism.  As  it  is  not  known  till  the  moment  they 
arrive,  there  is,  of  course,  great  excitement  among  the  hotel- 
keepers  in  these  different  parts  of  the  country  ;  and  a  village 
that  has  ten  thousand  transient  inhabitants  one  summer,  has,  for 
the  next,  scarcely  as  many  score.  The  vast  and  solitary  temples 
of  Paestum,  are  gay  in  comparison  with  these  halls  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

As  I  make  a  point  of  dawdling  away  July  and  August  in  this 
locomotive  metropolis  of  pleasure,  and  rather  prefer  Lebanon,  it 
is  always  agreeable  to  me  to  hear  that  the  nucleus  is  formed  in 
that  valley  of  hemlocks.  Not  for  its  scenery  ;  for  really,  my 
dear  eastern  hemispherian !  you  that  are  accustomed  to  what  is 
called  nature  in  England,  fto  wit,  a  soft  park,  with  a  gray  ruin  in 
the  midst,)  have  little  idea  how  wearily  upon  heart  and  mind 
presses  a  waste  wilderness  of  mere  forest  and  water,  without  stone 
or  story.  Trees  in  England  have  characters  and  tongues  ;  if  you 
see  a  fine  one,  you  know  whose  father  planted  it,  and  for  whose 
pleasure  it  was  designed,  and  about  what  sum  the  man  must  pos- 
sess to  afford  to  let  it  stand.  They  are  statistics,  as  it  were — so 
many  trees,  ergo^  so  many  owners,  so  rich.  In  America,  on  the 
contrary,  trees  grow,  and  waters  run,  as  the  stars  shine — quite  un- 
meaningly. There  may  be  ten  thousand  princely  elms,  and  not 
a  man  within  a  hundred  miles  worth  "  five  pounds  five."  You  ask, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  131 


in  England,  who  has  the  privilege  of  this  water  ?  or  you  say  of 
an  oak,  that  it  stood  in  such  a  man's  time  :  but,  with  us,  water  is 
an  element  unclaimed  and  unrented ;  and  a  tree  dabbles  in  the 
clouds  as  they  go  over,  and  is  like  a  great  idiot,  without  soul  or 
responsibility. 

If  Lebanon  had  a  history,  however,  it  would  have  been  a  spot 
for  a  pilgrimage,  for  its  natural  beauty.  It  is  shaped  like  a 
lotus,  with  one  leaf  laid  back  by  the  wind.  It  is  a  great  green 
cup,  with  a  scoop  for  a  diinking-place.  As  you  walk  in  the  long 
porticoes  of  the  hotel,  the  dark  forest  mounts  up  before  you  like 
a  leafy  wall,  and  the  clouds  seem  just  to  clear  the  pine-tops,  and 
the  eagles  sail  across  from  horizon  to  horizon,  without  lifting  their 
wings,  as  if  you  saw  them  from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  People 
born  there,  think  the  world  about  two  miles  square,  and  hilly. 

The  principal  charm  of  Lebanon  to  me,  is  the  village  of 
"  Shakers,"  lying  in  a  valley  about  three  miles  off.  As  Glaucus 
wondered  at  the  inert  tortoise  of  Pompeii,  and  loved  it  for  its 
antipodal  contrast  to  himself,  so  do  I  affection  (^a  French  verb 
that  I  beg  leave  to  introduce  to  the  English  language)  the  Shak- 
ing Quakers.  That  two  thousand  men  could  be  found  in  the 
New  "World,  who  would  embrace  a  religion  enjoying  a  frozen  and 
unsympathetic  -iutercouse  with  the  diviner  sex ;  and  that  an  equal 
number  of  females  could  be  induced  to  live  in  the  same  com- 
munity, without  locks  or  walls,  in  the  cold  and  rigid  observance 
of  a  creed  of  celibacy,  is  to  me  an  inexplicable  and  grave  won- 
der. My  delight  is  to  get  into  my  stanhope  after  breakfast,  and 
drive  over  and  spend  the  forenoon  in  contemplating  them  at  their 
work  in  the  fields.  They  have  a  peculiar  and  most  expressive 
physiognomy.  The  v^omen  are  pale,  or  of  a  wintry  redneis  in 
the  cheek,  and  are  all  attenuated  and  spare.     Gravity,  deep  and 


132  POSSIBLE  SINGLE-BLESSEDNESS. 


habitual,  broods  in  every  line  of  their  thin  faces.  They  go  out 
to  their  labor  in  company  with  those  serious  men,  and  are  never 
seen  to  smile  ;  their  eyes  are  all  hard  and  stony,  their  gait  is 
precise  and  stiff,  tJieir  voices  are  of  a  croaking  hoarseness,  and 
nature  seems  dead  in  them.  I  would  bake  you  such  men  and 
>vomen  in  a  brick  kiln. 

Do  they  think  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end  ?  Are  there  to 
be  no  more  children }  Is  Cupid  to  be  thrown  out  of  business, 
like  a  coach-proprietor  on  a  railroad.?  What  can  the  Shakers 
mean,  I  should  be  pleased  to  know.'' 

The  oddity  is  that  most  of  them  are  young.  Men  of  from 
twenty  to  thirty,  and  women  from  sixteen  to  twenty-five,  and 
often,  spite  of  their  unbecoming  dress,  good-looking  and  shapely, 
meet  you  at  every  step.  Industrious,  frugal,  and  self-denying, 
they  certainly  are ;  and  there  is  every  appearance  that  their  tenets 
of  difficult  abstinence  are  kept,  to  the  letter.  There  is  little 
temj)tation  beyond  principle  to  remain  ;  and  they  are  free  to  go 
and  come  as  they  list :  yet  there  they  live  on,  in  peace  and  unre- 
pining  industry,  and  a  more  thriving  community  does  not  exist  in 
the  Republic.  Many  a  time  have  I  driven  over,  on  a  Sunday,  and 
watched  those  solemn  virgins,  dropping  in,  one  after  another,  to 
the  church ;  and  when  the  fine-limbed  and  russet-faced  brother- 
hood were  swimming  round  the  floor  in  their  fanatical  dance,  I 
have  watched  their  countenances  for  some  look  of  preference, 
some  betrayal  of  an  ill-suppressed  impulse,  till  my  eyes  ached 
again.  I  have  selected  the  youngest  and  fairest,  and  have  not 
lost  sight  of  her  for  two  hours  ;  and  she  might  have  been  made 
of  cheese-parings,  for  any  trace  of  emotion.  There  is  food  for 
speculation  in  it.  Can  we  do  without  matrimony  ?  Can  we 
*^  strike,"  and  be  independent  of  these  dear,  delightful  tyrants, 


EARLIER   DAYS.  133 


for  whom  we  "  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being  ?"  "Will  it 
ever  be  no  blot  on  our  escutcheon,  to  have  attained  thirty-five  as 
an^unfructifying  unit  ?  Is  that  fearful  campaign,  with  all  its  em- 
barrassments and  awkwardnesses,  and  inquisitions  into  your  money 
and  morals,  its  bullyings  and  backings-out,  is  it  inevitable  ? 

Lebanon  has  one  other  charm.  Within  a  morning  drive  of  the 
Springs,  lies  the  fairest  village  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  see.  It 
is  English  in  its  character,  except  that  there  is  really  nothing  in 
this  country  so  perfect  of  its  kind.  There  are  many  towns  in  the 
United  States  more  picturesquely  situated  ;  but  this,  before  I  had 
been  abroad,  always  seemed  to  me  the  very  ideal  of  English  rural 
scenery,  and  the  kind  of  place  to  set  apart  for  either  love  or 
death — for  one's  honeymoon  or  burial :  the  two  periods  of  life 
which  I  have  always  hoped  would  find  me  in  the  loveliest  spot  of 
nature.  Stockbridge  lies  in  a  broad,  sunny  valley,  with  moun- 
tains at  exactly  the  right  distance,  and  a  river  in  its  bosom,  that 
is  as  delicate  in  its  windings,  and  as  suited  to  the  charms  it  wan- 
ders among,  as  a  vein  in  the  transparent  neck  of  beauty.  I  am 
not  going  into  a  regular  description,  but  I  have  carried  myself 
back  to  Lebanon  ;  and  the  remembrance  of  the  leafy  mornings  of 
summer,  in  which  I  have  driven  to  that  fair  earthly  paradise,  and 
loitered  under  its  elms,  imagining  myself  amid  the  scenes  of  song 
and  story  in  distant  England,  has  a  charm  for  me  now.  I  have 
seen  the  mother-land  ;  I  have  rambled  through  park,  woodland, 
and  village,  wherever  the  name  was  old  and  the  scene  lovely  ; 
and  it  pleases  me  to  go  back  to  my  dreaming  days,  and  compare 
the  reality  with  the  anticipation.  Most  small  towns  in  America 
have  traces  of  newness  about  them.  The  stumps  of  a  clearing, 
or  freshly-boarded  barns — something  that  is  the  antipodes  of 
vomance — meets  your  eye  from  every  aspect.     Stockbridge,  on 


134  LATITUDES  OF  BELLES. 

the  contrary,  is  an  old  town,  and  tlio  houses  are  of  a  rural  struc- 
ture ;  the  fields  look  soft  and  genial,  the  grass  is  swardlike,  the 
bridges  picturesque,  the  hedges  old,  and  the  elms,  nowhere,  so 
many  and  so  luxuriant,  are  full-grown  and  majestic.  The  village 
is  emhowered  in  foliage. 

Greatest  attraction  of  all,  the  authoress  of  "  Redwood"  and 
'*  Hope  Leslie,"  a  novelist  of  whom  America  has  the  good  sense 
to  be  proud,  is  the  Miss  Mitford  of  Stockbridge.  A  man^  though 
a  distinguished  one,  may  have  little  influence  on  the  town  he 
lives  in  ;  but  a  remarkable  ivoman  is  the  invariable  cynosure  of  a 
community,  and  irradiates  it  all.  i  think  -I  could  divine  the  pre- 
sence of  one  almost  by  the  growing  of  the  trees  and  flowers. 
"  Our  Village"  does  not  look  like  other  villages. 


II. 

You  will  have  forgotten  that  I  had  a  story  to  tell,  dear  reader. 

I  was  at  Lebanon  in  the  summer  of -,  (perhaps  you  don't 

care  about  knowing  exactly  when  it  was,  and,  in  that  case,  I 
would  rather  keep  shy  of  dates.  I  please  myself  with  the  idea, 
that  time  gets  on  faster  than  I.)  The  Springs  were  thronged. 
The  President's  lady  was  there,  (this  was  under  our  adminis- 
tration, the  Adams',)  and  all  the  four  cliques^  spoken  of  above, 
were  amicably  united — each  other's  beaux  dancing  with  each 
other's  belles,  and  so  on.  If  I  were  writing  merely  for  American 
eyes,  I  should  digress  once  more  to  describe  the  distinctive  cha- 
racters of  the  south,  north,  and  central  representations  of  beauty ; 
but  it  would  scarcely  interest  the  general  reader.  I  may  say,  in 
passing,  that  the  Boston  belles  were  a  PAnglaise,  rosy  and  ri- 
amies;  the   New-Yorkers,  like  Parisians,  cool,  dangerous,    and 


EARLIER  DAYS.  135 

dressy  ;  and  the  Baltimorcaiis,  (and  no  south,)  like  lonians  O'^ 
Romans,  indolent,  passionate,  lovely,  and  languishing.  jMen, 
women,  and  pine-apples,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  flourish  with  a 
more  kindly  growth  in  the  fervid  latitudes. 

The  campaign  went  on,  and  a  pleasant  campaign  it  was  ;  for 
the  parties  concerned  had  the  management  of  theii*  own  affairs — 
that  is,  they  who  had  hearts  to  sell,  mada  the  bargain  for  them- 
selves, (this  was  the  greater  num.ber  ;)  and  they  who  disposed  of 
this  commodity  gratis,  though  necessarily  young  and  ignorant  of 
the  world,  made  the  transfer  in  the  same  manner — in  person. 
This  is  your  true  Republic.  The  trading  in  affections  by  refer- 
ence— the  applying  to  an  old  and  selfish  heart  for  the  purchase 
of  a  young  and  ingenuous  one — the  swearing  to  your  rents,  and 
not  to  your  faithful  passion — to  your  settlements,  and  not  your 
constancy — the  cold  distance  between  yourself  and  the  young 
creature  who  is  to  lie  in  your  bosom,  till  the  purchase-money  is 
secured,  and  the  hasty  marriage  and  sudden  abandonment  of  a 
nature  thus  chilled,  and  put  on  its  guard,  to  a  freedom  with  one 
almost  a  stranger,  that  cannot  but  seem  licentious,  and  cannot 
but  break  down  that  sense  of  propriety  in  which  modesty  is  most 
strongly  intrenched — this  seems  to  me  the  07ie  evil  of  your  old 
woi-m-eaten  monarchies  that  side  the  water,  which  touches  the 
essential  happiness  of  the  well-bred  individual.  Taxation  and 
oppression  are  but  things  he  reads  of  in  the  morning  paper. 

This  freedom  of  intercourse  between  unmarried  people,  has  a 
single  disadvantage — one  gets  so  desperately  soon  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter !  There  shall  be  two  hundred  young  ladies  at  the 
Springs  in  a  given  season,  and,  by  the  difference  in  taste,  so 
wisely  arranged  by  Providence,  there  will  scarcely  be,  of  course, 
more  than  four  in  that  number,  whom  any  one  gentleman,  at  all 


136  LAINIE  WOMEN. 


difficult,  will  find  within  the  range  of  his  henii  ideal.  With  these 
four  he  may  converse  freely,  twelve  hours  in  the  day — more,  if 
he  particularly  desires  it.  They  may  ride  together,  drive  toge- 
ther, ramble  together,  sing  together,  be  together  from  morning 
till  night ;  and,  at  the  end  of  a  month  passed  in  this  way,  if  lie 
escape  a  committal,  as  is  possible,  he  will  know  all  that  are  agree- 
able, in  one  large  circle,  at  least,  as  well  as  he  knows  his  sisters — 
a  state  of  things  that  is  very  likely  to  end  in  his  going  abroad 
soon,  from  a  mere  dearth  of  amusement.  1  have  imagined,  how- 
ever, the  case  of  an  unmarrying  idle  man — a  character  too  rare, 
as  yet,  in  America,  to  affect  the  general  question.  People 
marry  as  they  die,  in  that  country — when  their  time  comes.  We 
?nust  all  marry,  is  as  much  an  axiom  as  ice  must  all  die^  and  eke 
as  melancholy. 

Shall  we  go  on  with  the  story  ?  I  had  escaped  for  two  blessed 
weeks,  and  was  congratulating  the  susceptible  gentleman  under  my 
waistcoat-pocket  that  we  should  never  be  in  love  with  less  than 

the  whole  sex  again,  when  a  German  Baron  Von arrived  at 

the  Springs  with  a  lame  daughter.  She  was  eighteen,  transparently- 
fair,  and,  at  first  sight,  so  shrinkingly  dependent,  so  delicate,  so 
childlike,  that  attention  to  her  assumed  the  form  almost  of  pity, 
and  sprang  as  naturally  and  unsuspectingly  from  the  heart.  The 
only  womanly  trait  about  her  was  her  voice,  which  was  so  deeply 
soft  and  full,  so  earnest  and  yet  so  gentle,  so  touched  with  sub- 
dued pathos  and  yet  so  melancholy  calm,  that,  if  she  spoke  after  a 
long  silence,  1  turned  to  her  involuntarily  with  the  feeling  that 
she  was  not  the  same — as  if  some  impassioned  and  eloquent 
woman  had  taken  unaware  the  place  of  the  simple  and  petted 
child. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  there  is  a  particular  tenderness  in  tha 


EARLIER  DAYS.  f^ 


bnman  breast  for  lame  women.  Any  other  deformity  in  the 
gentler  sex  is  monstrous ;  but  lameness  (the  devil's  defect)  is 
"the  devil."  I  picture  myself,  to  my  own  eye,  now — pacing 
those  rickety  colonnades  at  Lebanon  with  the  gentle  Meeta  hang- 
ing heavily,  and  with  the  dependence  inseparable  from  her  infirmi- 
ty, on  my  arm,  while  the  moon  (which  was  the  moon  of  the 
Rhine  to  hevj  full  of  thrilling  and  unearthly  influences)  rode 
solemnly  up  above  the  mountain-tops.  And  that  strange  voice, 
filling  like  a  flute  with  sweetness  as  the  night  advanced,  and  that 
irregular  pressure  of  the  small  wrist  in  her  forgotten  lameness, 
and  my  own  (I  thought)  almost  paternal  feeling  as  she  leaned 
more  and  more  heavily,  and  turned  her  delicate  and  fair  face  con- 
fidingly up  to  mine,  and  that  dangerous  mixture  altogether  of 
childlikeness  and  womanly  passion,  of  dependence  and  superiority, 
of  reserve  on  the  one  subject  of  love,  and  absolute  confidence  on 
every  other — if  I  had  not  a  story  to  tell,  I  could  prate  of  those 
June  nights  and  their  witcheries  till  you  would  think 

"  Tutti  gli  alberi  del  mondo 
Fossero  penne," 

and  myself  "  bitten  by  the  dipsas." 

"VYe  were  walking  one  night  late  in  the  gallery  running  around 
the  second  story  of  the  hotel.  There  was  a  ball  on  the  floor  be- 
low, and  the  music,  deadened  somewhat  by  the  crowded  room, 
came  up  softened  and  mellowed  to  the  dark  and  solitary  colon- 
nade, and  added  to  other  influences  in  putting  a  certain  lodger  in 
my  bosom  beyond  my  temporary  control.  I  told  Meeta  that  I 
loved  her. 

The  buiWinjr  stands  against  the  side  of  a  steep  mountain  high 
up  above  the  valley,  and  the  pines  and  hemlocks,  at  that  time, 


138  FIVE  MINUTES  TOO  SOON. 

hung  in  their  primeval  blackness  almost  oyer  the  roof.  As  the 
most  difficult  and  embarrassed  sentence  of  which  I  had  ever  been 
delivered  died  on  my  lips,  and  Meeta,  lightening  her  weight  on 
my  arm,  walked  in  apparently  offended  silence  by  my  side,  a  deep- 
toned  guitar  was  suddenly  struck  in  the  woods,  and  a  clear,  manly 
voice  broke  forth  in  a  song.  It  produced  an  instant  and  startling 
effect  on  my  companion.  With  the  first  word  she  quickly  with- 
drew her  arm ;  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  listening  with  her 
hands  raised  in  an  attitude  of  the  most  intense  eagerness,  she 
sprang  to  the  extremity  of  the  balustrade,  and  gazed  breathlessly 
into  the  dark  depths  of  the  forest.  The  voice  ceased,  and  she 
started  back,  and  laid  her  hand  hastily  upon  my  arm. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  hurried  feeling  ;  "  if  you 
are  generous,  stay  here  and  await  me  !"  and  in  another  moment 
she  sprang  along  the  bridge  connecting  the  gallery  with  the  rising 
ground  in  the  rear,  and  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  hemlocks. 

"  I  have  made  a  declaration,"  thought  I,  "  just  five  minutes  too 
soon." 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  now  too  lonely  colonnade,  and  picked 
up  the  fragments  of  my  dream  with  what  philosophy  I  might. 
By  the  time  Meeta  returned — perhaps  a  half  hour,  perhaps  an 
age,  as  you  measure  by  her  feeling  or  mine — I  had  hatched  up  a 
very  pretty  and  heroical  magnanimity.  She  would  have  spoken, 
but  was  breathless. 

"  Explain  nothing,"  I  said,  taking  her  arm  within  mine,  ''  and 
let  us  mutually  forget.  If  I  can  serve  you  better  than  by  silence, 
command  me  entirely.  I  live  but  for  your  happiness — even,"  I 
added  after  a  pause,  "  though  it  spring  from  another." 

We  were  at  her  chamber-door  She  pressed  my  hand  with  a 
strength  of  which  I  djd  not  think  those  small,  slight  fingers  capa- 


EARLIER  DAYS.  139 


ble,  and  vanished,  leaving  me,  I  am  free  to  confess,  less  resigneci 
than  you  would  suppose  from  my  last  speech.  I  had  done  th# 
dramatic  thing,  thanks  to  much  reading  of  you,  dear  Barry  Corn 
wall !  but  it  was  not  in  a  play.     I  remained  killed  after  the  audi 


ence  was  gone  ! 


III. 

The  next  day  a  new  character  appeared  on  the  stage. 
"  SiLcfi  a  handsome  pedlar !"  said  magnificent  Helen 


to  me,  as  I  gave  my  horse  to  the  groom  after  a  ride  in  search  of 
hellebore,  and  joined  the  promenade  at  the  well :  "  and  what  do 
you  think  ?  he  sells  only  by  raffle  !  It's  so  nice  !  All  sorts  of 
Berlin  iron  ornaments,  and  everything  German  and  sweet ;  and 
the  pedlar's  smile's  worth  more  than  the  prizes  ;  and  such  a  mus- 
tache !  See  !  there  he  is  ! — and  now,  if  he  has  sold  all  his  tickets 
— will  you  come.  Master  Grravity  ?" 

"  I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear,"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the 
beauty  my  arm,  and  joined  a  crowd  of  people  gathered  about  a 
pedlar's  box  in  the  centre  of  the  parterre. 

The  itinerant  vender  spread  his  wares  in  the  midst  of  the  gay 
assemblage,  and  the  raffle  went  on.  He  was  excessively  hand- 
some. A  head  of  the  sweet  gentleness  of  Raphael's,  with  locks 
flowing  to  his  shoulders  in  the  fashion  of  German  students,  a  soft 
brovra  mustache  curving  on  a  short  Phidian  upper  lip,  a  large 
blue  eye  expressive  of  enthusiasm  rather  than  passion,  and  fea- 
tures altogether  purely  intellectual — formed  a  portrait  of  which 
even  jealousy  might  console  itself.  Through  all  the  disadvantages 
of  a  dress  suited  to  his  apparent  vocation,  an  eye  the  least  on  the 
alert  for  a  disguise  would  have  penetrated  his  in  a  moment.  The 
gay  and  thoughtless  crowd  about  him,  not  accustomed  to  impos- 


140  HELPING  LOVERS. 


tors  who  were  more  than  they  pretended  to  be,  trusted  lim  for  a 
pedlar,  but  treated  him  with  a  respect  far  above  his  station,  insen- 
sibly. 

Whatever  his  object  was,  so  it  were  honorable,  I  inly  deter- 
mined to  give  him  all  the  assistance  in  my  power.  A  single 
glance  at  the  face  of  Meeta,  who  joined  the  circle  as  the  prizes 
were  drawn — a  face  so  changed  since  yesterday,  so  flushed  with 
hope  and  pleasure,  and  yet  so  saddened  by  doubt  and  fear,  the 
small  lips  compressed,  the  soft  black  eye  kindled  and  restless,  and 
the  red  leaf  on  her  cheek  deepened  to  a  feverish  beauty — left  me 
no  shadow  of  hesitation.  I  exchanged  a  look  with  her  that  I  in- 
tended should  say  as  much. 


ly. 

I  know  nothing  that  gives  one  such  an  elevated  idea  of  human 
nature  (in  one's  own  person)  as  helping  another  man  to  a  woman 
one  loves.  Oh  last  days  of  minority  or  thereabout !  oh  primal 
manhood  !  oh  golden  time,  when  we  have  let  go  all  but  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  boy,  and  seized  hold  of  all  but  the  selfishness  of  the 
man  !  oh  blessed  interregnum  of  the  evil  and  stronger  genius  !  why 
can  we  not  bottle  up  thy  hours  like  the  wine  of  a  better  vintage, 
and  enjoy  them  in  the  parched  world-weariness  of  age  ?  In  the 
tardy  honeymoon  of  a  bachelor  (as  mine  will  be,  if  it  come  ever, 
alas  !)  with  what  joy  of  paradise  should  we  bring  up,  from  the  cel- 
lars of  the  past,  a  hamper  of  that  sunny  Hyppocrene  ! 

Pedlar  Karl  and  the  "  gentleman  in  No.  10"  would  have  been 
suspected  in  any  other  country  of  conspiracy.  (How  odd,  that 
the  highest  crime  of  a  monarchy — the  attempt  to  supplant  the 
existing  ruler — ^becomes   in  a  republic  a  creditable  profession^ 


EARLIER  DAYS.  J4j 


You  are  a  traitor  here,  a  'politician  there  !)  We  sat  together  from 
midnight  onward,  discoursing  in  low  voices  over  sherry  and  sand- 
wiches ;  and,  in  that  crowded  Babylon,  his  entrances  and  exits  re- 
quired a  very  conspirator-liie  management.  Known  as  my  friond, 
his  trade  and  his  disguise  were  up.  As  a  pedlar,  wandering  about 
where  he  listed  when  not  employed  over  his  wares,  his  interviews 
with  3Ieeta  were  easily  contrived,  and  his  lover's  watch,  gazing  on 
her  through  the  long  hours  of  the  ball  from  the  crowd  of  villagers 
at  the  windows,  hovering  about  her  walks,  and  feeding  his  heart 
on  the  many,  many  chance  looks  of  fondness  given  him  every  hour 
in  that  out-of-doors  society,  kept  him  comparatively  happy. 

"  The  baron  looked  hard  at  you  to-day,"  said  I,  as  he  closed 
the  door  in  my  little  room,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

*'  Yes  ;  he  takes  an  interest  in  me  as  a  countryman,  but  he  does 
not  know  me.  He  is  a  dull  observer,  and  has  seen  me  but  once 
in  Germany." 

"  How,  then,  have  you  known  31eeta  so  long  ?" 

"  I  accompanied  her  brother  home  from  the  university,  when 
the  baron  was  away,  and  for  a  long  month  we  were  seldom  part- 
ed. Riding,  boating  on  the  Rhine,  watching  the  sunset  from  the 
bartizan  of  the  old  castle-towers,  reading  in  the  old  library,  ram- 
bling in  the  park  and  forest — it  was  a  heaven,  my  friend,  than 
which  I  can  conceive  none  brighter." 

"And  her  brother  .'" 

"  Alas  !  changed  !  "\Ye  were  both  boys  then,  and  a  brother  is 
slow  to  believe  his  sister's  beauty  dangerous.  He  was  the  first  to 
shut  the  doors  against  me,  when  he  heard  that  the  poor  student 
had  dared  to  love  his  highborn  Meeta," 

Karl  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  brooded  for  a  while  in 
silence  on  the  remembrances  he  had  awakened. 


142  AN  OLD  MAID  AUNT. 


"  Do  you  think  the  baron  came  to  America  purposely  to  avoid 
you  ?" 

"  Partly,  I  have  no  doubt,  for  I  entered  tlie  castle  one  nigbt  in 
my  despair,  when  I  had  been  forbidden  entrance,  and  lie  found  me 
at  her  feet  in  the  old  corridor.  It  was  the  only  time  he  ever  saw 
me,  if,  indeed,  he  saw  me  at  all  in  the  darkness ;  and  he  immedi- 
ately hastened  his  preparations  for  a  long-contemplated  journey, 
I  knew  not  whither." 

"  Did  you  follow  him  soon  .^" 

"  No,  for  my  heart  was  cruslied  at  first,  and  I  despaired.  The 
possibility  of  following  them  in  my  wretched  poverty,  did  not  even 
occur  to  me  for  months." 

"  How  did  you  track  them  hither,  of  all  places  in  the  world  .^" 

"  I  sought  them  first  in  Italy.  It  is  easy,  on  the  continent,  to 
find  out  wliere  persons  are  not^  and  after  two  years'  wanderings,  I 
heard  of  them  in  P-cis.  They  had  just  sailed  for  America.  I 
followed  ;  but  iu  a  coiiritiy  where  there  are  no  passports,  and  no 
espionage,  it  is  di{iir;Lilt  to  trace  the  traveller.  It  was  probable 
only  that  they  would  be  at  a  place  of  general  resort,  and  I  came 
here  with  no  assurance  but  hope.  Thanks  to  God,  the  first  sight 
that  greeted  my  eyes  was  my  dear  jMeeta,  whose  irregular  step,  as 
she  walked  back  and  forth  with  you  in  the  gallery,  enabled  me  to 
recognize  her  in  the  darkness." 

Who  shall  say  the  days  of  romance  are  over  ?  The  plot  is  not 
brought  to  the  catastrophe,  but  we  hope  it  is  near. 

V. 

My  aunt,  Isabella  Slingsby  (now  in  heaven,  with  the  "  eleven 
thousand  virgins,"  God  rest  her  soul !)  was  at  this  time,  as  at  all 
others,  under  my  respectable  charge.     She  would  have  said  I  was 


EARLIER  DAYS.  143 


under  hers — but  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing — ^we  lived  together 
in  peace  and  harmony.  She  said  what  she  pleased,  for  I  loved 
her — and  I  did  what  I  pleased,  for  she  loved  me.  When  Karl 
told  me  that  Meeta's  principal  objection  to  an  elopement  was  the 
want  of  a  matron,  I  shut  the  teeth  of  my  resolution,  as  they  say 
in  Persia,  and  inwardly  vowed  my  unconscious  aunt  to  this  exi- 
gency. You  should  have  seen  Miss  Isabella  Slingsby  to  know 
what  a  desperate  man  may  be  brought  to  resolve  on. 

On  a  certain  day.  Count  Yon  Rafl3e-off  (as  my  witty  friend  and 
ally,  Tom  Fane,  was  pleased  to  call  the  handsome  pedlar)  depart- 
ed with  his  pack  and  the  hearts  of  all  the  dressing-maids  and 
some  of  their  mistresses,  on  his  way  to  New  York.  I  drove  down 
the  road  to  take  my  leave  of  him  out  of  sight,  and  give  him  my 
last  instructions. 

How  to  attack  my  aunt  was  a  subject  about  which  I  had  many 
unsatisfactory  thoughts.  If  there  was  one  thing  she  disapproved 
of  more  than  another,  it  was  an  elopement ;  and  with  what  face  to 
propose  to  her  to  run  away  with  a  baron's  only  daughter,  and 
leave  her  in  the  hands  of  a  pedlar,  taking  upon  herself,  as  she 
must,  the  whole  sin  and  odium,  was  an  enigma  I  ate,  drank,  and 
slept  upon,  in  vain.  One  thing  at  last  became  very  clear — she 
would  do  it  for  nobody  but  me.  Sequitur,  I  must  play  the  lover 
myself. 

I  commenced  with  a  fit  of  illness.  What  was  the  matter  ?  For 
two  days  I  was  invisible.  Dear  Isabella  !  it  was  the  first  time  I 
had  ever  drawn  seriously  on  thy  fallow  sympathies,  and,  how  freely 
they  flowed  at  my  afiected  sorrows,  I  shame  to  remember  !  Did 
ever  woman  so  weep  ?  Did  ever  woman  so  take  antipathy  to 
man  as  she  to  that  innocent  old  baron  for  his  supposed  refusal  of 
his  daughter  to  Philip  Slingsby  ?     This  revival  of  the  remem- 


144  TENDER  HUMBUG. 


brance  shall  not  be  in  vain.  The  mignonette  and  roses  planted 
above  thy  grave,  dearest  aunt,  shall  be«weeded  anew  ! 

Oh  that  long  week  of  management  and  hypocrisy  !  The  day 
came  at  last. 

"Aunt  Bel!' 

"  What,  Philip,  dear .?" 

'^  I  think  I  feel  better  to-day." 

"  Yes .?" 

"Yes.     What  say  you  to  a  drive  .''     There  is  the  stanhope." 

"  My  dear  Phil,  don't  mention  that  horrid  stanhope.  I  am 
Bure,  if  you  valued  my  life — " 

"  Precisely,  aunt — (I  had  taken  care  to  give  her  a  good  fright 
the  day  before) — but  Tom  Fane  has  offered  mo  Lis  ponies  and 
Jersey  wagon,  and  that,  you  know,  is  the  most  quiet  thing  in  the 

world,  and   holds   four.     So,  perhaps ehem  ! you'll   ask 

Meeta  ?" 

"  Um  !     Why,  you  see,  Philip—" 

I  saw  at  once,  that,  if  it  got  to  an  argument,  I  was  ^erdu. 
Miss  Slingsby,  though  a  sincere  Christian,  never  could  keep  her 
temper  when  she  tried  to  reason.  I  knelt  down  on  her  footstool, 
smoothed  away  the  false  hair  on  her  forehead,  and  kissed  her. 
It  was  a  fascinating  endearment  of  mine,  that  I  only  resorted  to 
on  great  emergencies.  The  hermit  tooth,  in  my  aunt's  mouth, 
became  gradually  visible,  heralding  what  in  youth  had  been  a 
smile  ;  and,  as  I  assisted  her  in  rolling  up  her  embroidery,  she 
looked  on  me  with  an  unsuspecting  affection,  that  touched  my 
Heart.  I  made  a  silent  vow,  that  if  she  survived  the  scrape  into 
"which  she  was  being  inveio-led,  I  would  be  to  her  and  her  do^ 
Whimsiculo,  (the  latter  my  foe  and  my  aversion,)  the  soul  of  ex- 
emplary kindness  for  the  remainder  of  their  natural  lives.     I  lay 


EARLIER  DAYS.  14^ 


Ac  unction  to  my  soul,  that  this  vow  was  kept.  My  aunt 
blessed  me  shortly  before  she  was  called  to  "  walk  in  white,"  (she 
bad,  hitherto,  walked  in  yellow ;)  and,  as  it  would  have  been  un- 
natural in  Whimsiculo  to  survive  her,  I  considered  his  "  natural 
life"  as  ended  with  hers,  and  had  him  peacefully  strangled  on  the 
same  day.  He  lies  at  her  feet,  as  usual — a  delicate  attention, 
of  which  (I  trust  in  Swedenborg)  her  spirit  is  aware. 

With  the  exception  of  "  Tom  Thumb"  and  "Rattler,"  who 
were  of  the  same  double-jointed  family,  of  interminable  wind  and 
bottom,  there  was  never,  perhaps,  such  a  pair  of  goers  as  Tom 
Fane's  ponies.  My  aunt  had  a  lurking  hope,  I  believe,  that  the 
baron  would  refuse  Meeta  permission  to  join  us  ;  but  either  he 
did  not  think  mo  a  dangerous  person,  (I  have  said  before  he  was 
a  dull  man,)  or  he  had  no  objection  to  me  as  a  son-in-law  ;  which 
my  aunt  and  myself  (against  the  world)  would  have  thought  the 
natural  construction  upon  his  indifference.  lie  came  to  the  ead 
of  the  colonnade  to  see  us  start ;  and,  as  I  eased  the  ribands,  and 
let  the  ponies  off,  like  a  shot  from  a  crossbow,  I  stole  a  look  at 
Meeta.  The  color  had  fled  from  cheek  and  lip,  and  the  tears 
streamed  over  them  like  rain.  Aunt  Bel  was  on  the  back  seat, 
grace  a  Dien. 

We  met  Tom  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  1  pulled  up.  He  was 
the  hest  fellow,  that  Tom  Fane  ! 

"  Ease  both  the  bearing  reins,"  said  I ;  "I  am  going  up  the 
mountain." 

''  The  devil,  you  are  !"  said  Tom,  doing  my  bidding,  however  ; 

"  you'll  find  the  road  to  the  Shakers  much  pleasanter.     What  an 

odd  whim  !     It's  a  perpendicular  three  miles.  Miss  Slingsby.     I 

would  as  lief  be  hoisted  up  a  well,  and  let  down  again.     Don't 

7 


146  THE  ELOPEMENT 


go  that  way,  Phil,  unless  you  are  going  to  run  away  with  Miss 
Von " 

"  Many  a  shaft  at  random  sent," 

thought  I ;  and  waving  the  tandem  lash  over  the  ears  of  the 
ponies,  I  brought  up  the  silk  on  the  cheek  of  their  malaprop 
master,  and  spanked  away  up  the  hill,  leaving  him  in  a  range 
likely  to  get  a  fresh  supply  of  fuel  by  dinner-time.  Tom  was  of 
a  plethoric  habit ;  and  if  I  had  not  thought  he  could  afford  to 
burst  a  blood-vessel  better  than  two  lovers  to  break  their  hearts, 
T  should  not  have  ventured  on  the  bold  measure  of  borrowing  his 
horses  for  an  hour,  and  keeping  them  a  week.  We  have  shaken 
hands  upon  it  since  ;  but  it  is  my  private  opinion,  that  he  has 
never  foro;iven  me  in  his  heart. 

As  we  wound  slowly  up  the  mountain,  I  gave  Meeta  the  reins, 
and  jumped  out  to  gather  some  wild  flowers  for  my  aunt.  Dear 
old  soul  !  the  attention  reconciled  her  to  what  she  considered  a 
very  unwarrantable  caprice  of  mine.  What  I  could  wish  to  toil 
up  that  steep  mountain  for  ?  AVell !  the  flowers  are  charming  in 
these  high  regions  ! 

"  Don't  you  see  my  reason  for  coming,  then,  aunt  Bella  V 

^'  Was  it  for  that,  dear  Philip  ?"  said  she,  putting  the  wild 
flowers  affectionately  into  her  bosom,  where  they  bloomed  like 
broidery  on  saffron  tapestry;  "How  considerate  of  you!" 
And  she  drew  her  shawl  around  her,  and  was  at  peace  with  all  the 
world.  So  easily  are  the  old  made  happy  by  the  young !  Reader, 
I  scent  a  moral  in  the  air  ! 

We  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  If  I  was  sane,  my  aunt  was 
probably  thinking  I  should  turn  here  and  go  back      To  descend 


EARLIER  DAYS.  147 


the  other  side,  and  re-ascend  and  descend  again  to  the  Springs, 
was  hardly  a  sort  of  thing  one  would  do  for  pleasure. 

"  Here's  a  good  place  to  turn,  Philip, ''  said  she,  as  wo  entered 
a  smooth,  broad  hollow,  on  the  top  of  the  mountain. 

I  dashed  through  it,  as  if  the  ponies  were  shod  with  talaria. 
My  aunt  said  nothing,  and  luckily  the  road  was  very  narrow  for  a 
mile,  and  she  had  a  horror  of  a  short  turn.  A  new  thought 
struck  me. 

"  Did  you  ever  know,  aunt,  that  there  was  a  way  back  around 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  ?" 

"  Dear,  no  ;  how  delightful !     Is  it  far  .?" 

"  A  couple  of  hours,  or  so  ;  but  I  can  do  it  in  less.  We'll 
try  ;"  and  I  gave  the  sure-footed  Canadians  the  whip,  and  scam- 
pered down  the  hills,  as  if  the  rock  of  Sisyphus  had  been  rolling 
after  us. 

We  were  soon  over  the  mountain- range,  and  the  road  grew 
boLter  and  more  level.  Oh,  how  fast  pattered  those  little  hoofs, 
and  how  full  of  spirit  and  excitement  looked  those  small  ears, 
cutching  the  lightest  chirrup  I  could  whisper,  like  the  very  spell 
of  swiftness  !  Pines,  hemlocks,  and  cedars — farmhouses  and 
milestones,  flew  back  like  shadows.  My  aunt  sat  speechless  in 
the  middle  of  the  back  seat,  holding  on  with  both  hands,  in 
apprehensive  resignation  !  She  expected  soon  to  come  in  sight 
of  the  Springs,  and  had,  doubtless,  taken  a  mental  resolution, 
that  if,  please  God,  she  once  more  found  herself  at  home,  she 
would  never  "  tempt  Providence,"  (it  was  a  favorite  expression 
of  hers,)  by  trusting  herself  again  behind  such  a  pair  of  fly- 
away demons.  As  I  read  this  thought  in  her  countenance,  by  a 
stolen  glance  over  my  shoulder,  we  rattled  into  a  village  distant 
from  Lebanon  twenty 'miles. 


148  GETTING  LATF.. 


"  There,  aunt,"  said  I,  as  I  pulled  up  at  the  door  of  the  inn, 
"  we  have  very  nearly  described  a  circle.  Now,  don't  speak  !  if 
you  do,  you'll  start  the  horses.  There's  nothing  they  are  so 
much  afraid  of  as  a  woman's  voice.  Very  odd,  isn't  it  ?  "We'll 
just  sponge  their  mouths  now,  and  be  home  in  the  crack  of  a 
whip.     Five  miles  more,  only.     Come  !" 

Off  we  sped  again,  like  the  wind,  aunt  Bel  just  venturing  to 
wonder  whether  the  horses  wouldn't  rather  go  slower.  Meeta 
had  hardly  spoken  ;  she  had  thoughts  of  her  own  to  be  busy 
with,  and  1  pretended  to  be  fully  occupied  with  my  driving.  The 
nonsense  I  talked  to  those  horses,  to  do  away  the  embarrassment 
of  her  silence,  would  convict  me  of  insanity  before  any  jury  in  the 
world. 

The  sun  began  to  throw  long  shadows,  and  the  short-legged 
ponies  figured  like  flying  giraffes  along  the  retiring  hedges. 
Luckily,  my  aunt  had  very  little  idea  of  conjecturing  a  course  by 
the  points  of  the  compass.     We  sped  on  gloriously. 

"Philip,  dear  I  hav'n't  you  lost  your  way  .^  It  seems  to  me 
we've  come  more  than  five  miles  since  you  stopped" — (ten,  at 
least) — "  and  I  don't  see  the  mountains  about  Lebanon,  at  all !" 

"  Don't  bo  alarmed,  aunty,  dear  !  We're  very  high,  just  here, 
and  shall  drop  doivn  on  Lebanon,  as  it  were.  Are  yoiu  afraid, 
Meeta .?" 

"  Nein  .^"  she  answered.  She  was  thinking  in  German,  poor 
girl,  and  heart  and  memory  were  wrapped  up  in  the  thought. 

I  drove  on  almost  cruelly.  Tom's  incomparable  horses  justi- 
fied all  his  eulogiums  ;  they  were  indefatigable.  The  sun  blazed 
a  moment  through  the  firs,  and  disappeared ;  the  gorgeous 
changes  of  eve  came  over  the  clouds  ;  the  twilight  stole  through 
the  damp  air,  with  it.^  melancholy  gray ;  and  the  whippoorwills — 


EARLIER  DAYS.  149 


birds  of  evening — came  abroad,  like  gentlemen  in  debt,  to  flit 
about  in  the  darkness.  Everything  was  saddening.  My  own 
volubility  ceased ;  the  whiz  of  the  lash,  as  I  waved  it  over  the 
heads  of  my  foaming  ponies,  and  an  occasional  "  Steady  !"  as 
one  or  the  other  broke  into  a  gallop,  were  the  only  inter- 
ruptions to  the  silence.  Meeta  buried  her  face  in  the  folds  of 
her  shawl,  and  sat  closer  to  my  side ;  and  my  aunt,  soothed  and 
flattered  by  turns,  believed  and  doubted,  and  was,  finally,  per- 
suaded, by  my  ingenious  and  well-inserted  fibs,  that  it  was  only 
somewhat  farther  than  I  anticipated,  and  we  should  arrive  "  pre- 
sently." 

Somewhere  about  eight  o'clock,  the  lights  of  a  town  ap- 
peared in  the  distance,  and,  straining  every  nerve,  the  gallant 
beasts  whirled  us  in  through  the  streets,  and  I  pulled  up,  suddenly, 
at  the  door  of  an  hotel. 

""Why,  Philip!"  said  my  aunt,  in  a  tone  of  unutterable 
astonishment,  looking  about  her  as  if  she  had  awoke  from  a 
dream,  "  this  is  Hudson  !" 

It  was  too  clear  to  be  disputed.  "We  were  upon  the  North 
River,  forty  miles  from  Lebanon,  and  the  steamer  v/ould  touch 
at  the  pier  in  half  an  hour.  My  aunt  was  to  be  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers to  New  York,  but  she  was  yet  to  be  persuaded  of  it ;  the 
only  thing  now  was,  to  get  her  into  the  house,  and  enact  the 
scene  as  soon  as  possible. 

I  helped  her  out  as  tenderly  as  I  knew  how,  and,  as  we  went 
up  stairs,  I  requested  Meeta  to  sit  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  cover  her  face  with  her  handkerchief.  When  the  servant 
was  locked  out,  I  took  my  aunt  into  the  recess  of  the  window, 
and  informed  her,  to  her  very  great  surprise,  that  she  had  run 
away  with  the  baron's  daughter. 


150  NEARLY  DONE. 


"  Philip  Slingsby  !" 

My  aunt  was  overcome.  I  had  nothing  for  it,  hut  to  he  over 
come  too.  She  sunk  into  one  chair,  and  I  into  the  other  ;  and 
burying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  looked  through  my  fingers  to 
watch  the  effect.  Five  mortal  minutes  lasted  my  aunt's  wrath  ; 
gradually,  however,  she  began  to  steal  a  look  at  me,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  resentment  about  her  thin  lips,  softened  into  some- 
thing like  pity. 

"  Philip  !"  said  she,  taking  my  hand. 

'^  My  dear  aunt !" 

"  What  is  to  done  .?" 

I  pointed  to  Meeta,  who  sat  with  her  head  on  her  bosom, 
pressed  my  hand  to  my  heart,  as  if  to  suppress  a  pang,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  explain.  It  seemed  impossible  for  my  aunt  to  forgive 
the  deception  of  the  thing.  Unsophisticated  Isabella  !  If  thoi; 
hadst  known  that  thou  wert,  even  yet,  one  fold  removed  from  the 
truth — if  thou  couldst  have  divined,  that  it  was  not  for  the  darling 
of  ihy  heart,  that  thou  wert  yielding  a  point  only  less  dear  to 
thee  than  thy  maiden  reputation — if  it  could  have  entered  thy 
region  of  possibilities,  that  thine  own  house,  in  town,  had  been 
three  days  aired  for  the  reception  of  a  bride,  run  away  with  by 
thy  ostensible  connivance,  and  all  for  a  German  pedlar,  in  whose 
fortunes  and  loves  thou  hadst  no  shadow  of  interest — I  think  the 
brain  in  thee  would  have  turned,  and  the  dry  heart  in  thy  bosom 
have  broken  with  surprise  and  grief ! 

I  wrote  a  note  to  Tom,  left  his  horses  at  the  inn,  and,  at  nine 
o'clock,  we  were  steaming  down  the  Hudson,  my  aunt  in  bed,  an(i 
Meeta  pacing  the  deck  with  me,  and  pouring  forth  her  fears  and 
her  gratitude  in  a  voice  of  music  that  made  me  almost  repent  my 
self-sacrificing  enterprise.   I  have  told  the  story  gaily,  gentle  reader ! 


EARLIER  DAYS.  15i 


but  there  was  a  nerve  ajar  in  my  heart,  while  its  little  events 
went  on. 

How  we  sped,  thereafter,  dear  reader  ! — how  the  consul  of  his 
majesty  of  Prussia  was  persuaded  by  my  aunt's  respectability,  to 
legalize  the  wedding  by  his  presence — how  my  aunt  fainted  dead 
away  when  the  parson  arrived,  and  she  discovered  who  was  not 
to  be  the  bridegroom  and  who  was — how  I  persuaded  her  she  had 
gone  too  far  to  recede,  and  worked  on  her  tenderness  once  more 
— how  the  weeping  Karl,  and  his  lame  and  lovely  bride,  lived  with 
us  till  the  old  baron  thought  it  fit  to  give  Meeta  his  blessing 
and  some  money — how  Tom  Fane  wished  no  good  to  the  pedlar's 
eyes — and,  lastly,  how  Miss  Isabella  Slingsby  lived  and  died, 
wondering  what  earthly  motive  I  could  have  for  my  absurd  share 
in  these  events,  are  matters  of  which  I  spare  you  the  particulars 


NIAGAM-LAKE  ONTAHIO-THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

NO.    I. NIAGARA. 

"  He  was  born  when  the  crab  was  ascending,  and  all  his  affairs  go  backward."-* 
Love  for  Love. 

It  was  in  my  senior  vacation,  and  I  was  bound  to  Niagara  for 
tlie  first  time.  My  companion  was  a  specimen  of  the  Iiuman 
race,  found  rarely  in  Vermont,  and  never  elsewhere.  He  was 
nearly  seven  feet  high,  walked  as  if  every  joint  in  his  body  was  in 
a  hopeless  state  of  dislocation,  and  was  hideously,  ludicrously,  and 
painfully  ugly.  This  whimsical  exterior  contained  the  conscious 
spirit  of  Apollo,  and  the  poetical  susceptibility  of  Keats.  He 
had  left  his  plough  in  the  Grreen  Mountains,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  and  entered  as  a  poor  student  at  the  university,  where,  with 
the  usual  policy  of  the  college  government,  he  was  allotted  to  mo 
as  a  compulsory  chum,  on  the  principle  of  breaking  in  a  colt 
with  a  cart-horse.  I  began  with  laughing  at  him,  and  ended  with 
loving  him.  He  rejoiced  in  the  common  appellation  of  Job 
Smith — a  synonymous  soubriquet,  as  I  have  elsewhere  remarked, 
which  was  substituted  by  his  classmates  for  his  baptismal  name 
of  Forbearance. 

Getting  Job  away,  with  infinite  difficulty,  from  a  young  Indian 
girl,  who   was   selling   moccasins   in   the   streets   of  Bufialo,  (a 


EARLIER  DAYS.  1§3 

straight,  slender  creature,  of  eighteen,  stepping  about  like  a 
young  leopard,  cold,  stern,  and  beautiful,)  we  crossed  the  outlet 
of  Lake  Erie,  at  the  ferry,  and  took  horses  on  the  northern  bank 
of  Niao-ara  River,  to  ride  to  the  Falls.  It  was  a  noble  stream — 
as  broad  as  the  Hellespont,  and  as  blue  as  the  sky  ;  and  I  could 
not  look  at  it,  hurrying  on  headlong  to  its  fearful  leap,  without  a 
feeling  almost  of  dread. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  which  Job  was  more  susceptible, 
than  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  that  was  the  beauty  of  woman. 
His  romance  had  been  stirred  by  the  lynx-eyed  Sioux,  who  took 
her  money  for  the  moccasins,  with  such  haughty  and  thankless 
superbia ;  and  full  five  miles  of  the  river,  with  all  the  gorgeous 
flowers  and  rich  shrubs  upon  its  rim,  might  as  well  have  been 
Lethe  for  his  admiration.  He  rode  along,  like  the  man  of  rags 
you  see  paraded  on  an  ass,  in  the  carnival,  his  legs  and  arms 
dangling  about  in  ludicrous  obedience  to  the  sidelong  hitch  of  his 
pacer. 

The  roar  of  the  Falls  was  soon  audible  ;  and  Job's  enthusiasm, 
and  my  own,  if  the  increased  pace  of  our  Narraganset  ponies 
meant  anything,  were  fully  aroused.  The  river  broke  into  rapids, 
foaming  furiously  on  its  course  ;  and  the  subterranean  thunder 
increased,  like  a  succession  of  earthquakes,  each  louder  than  the 
last.  I  had  never  heard  a  sound  so  broad  and  universal.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  suspend  the  breath,  and  feel  absorbed,  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  other  thoughts,  in  the  great  phenomenon  with 
which  the  world  seemed  trembling  to  its  centre.  A  tall,  misty 
cloud,  changing  its  shape  continually,  as  it  felt  the  shocks  of  the 
air,  rose  up  before  us  ;  and,  with  our  eyos  fixed  upon  it,  and  our 
horses  at  a  hard  gallop,  we  found  ourselves,  unexpectedly,  in  front 
of  a  vast,  white hotel !  which  suddenly  interposed  between 


154  MISS  E.  M- 


the  cloud  and  our  vision.  Job  slapped  his  legs  against  the  sides 
of  his  panting  beast,  and  urged  him  on  ;  but  a  long  fence,  on 
either  side  of  the  immense  building,  cut  him  off  from  approach  ; 
and,  having  assured  ourselves  that  there  was  no  access  to  Niagara, 
except  through  the  back-door  of  the  gentleman's  house,  who 
stood  with  hat  off  to  receive  us,  we  wished  no  good  to  his  ma- 
jesty's province  of  Upper  Canada,  and  dismounted. 

**  Will  you  visit  the  Falls  before  dinner,  gentlemen  .^"  asked 
mine  host. 

"  No,  sir !"  thundered  Job,  in  a  voice  that,  for  a  moment, 
stopped  the  roar  of  the  cataract. 

He  was  like  an  improvisatore  who  had  been  checked  by  some 
rude  birbone  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  eloquence.  He  would  not 
have  gone  to  the  Falls  that  night  to  have  saved  the  world.  We 
dined. 

As  it  was  the  first  meal  we  had  ever  eaten  under  a  monarchy,  I 
proposed  the  health  of  the  King ;  but  Job  refused  it.  There  was 
an  impertinent  profanity,  he  said,  in  fencing  up  the  entrance  to 
Niagara,  that  was  a  greater  encroachment  on  natural  liberty  than 
the  *  stamp  act.'  He  would  drink  to  no  King  or  parliament  un- 
der which  such  a  thing  could  be  conceived  possible.  I  left  the 
table  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"  Job,  come  here  I  Miss ,  by  all  that  is  lovely  !" 

He  flounced  up  like  a  snake  touched  with  a  torpedo,  and 
sprang  to  the  window.  Job  had  never  seen  the  lady  whose  name 
produced  such  a  sensation,  but  he  had  heard  more  of  her  than  of 
Niagara.  So  had  every  soul  of  the  fifteen  millions  of  inhabitants 
between  us  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  She  was  one  of  those  mira- 
cles of  nature  that  occur,  perhaps  once,  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  an 
empire — a  woman  of  the  perfect  beauty  of  an  angel,  with  the  most 


EARLIER  DAY  .  155 


vinnin^  human  sweetness  of  character  and  manner.  She  was 
kind,  playful,  unaffected,  and  radiantly,  gloriously  beautiful.  I 
am  sorry  I  may  not  mention  her  name,  for  in  more  chivah'ous 
times  she  would  have  been  a  character  of  history.  Everybody 
who  has  been  in  America,  however,  will  know  whom  I  am  describ- 
ing, and  I  am  sorry  for  those  who  have  not.  The  country  of 
Washington  will  be  in  its  decadence  before  it  sees  such  another. 

She  had  been  to  the  Fall,  and  was  returning,  with  her  mother, 
and  a  troop  of  lovers,  who,  I  will  venture  to  presume,  brought 
away  a  very  imperfect  impression  of  the  scene.  I  would  describe 
her  as  she  came  laughing  up  that  green  bank,  unconscious  of 
everything  but  the  pleasure  of  life  in  a  summer  sunset ;  but  I 
leave  it  for  a  more  skilful  hand.  The  authoress  of  "  Hope  Les- 
lie" will,  perhaps,  mould  her  image  into  one  of  her  inimitable 
heroines. 

I  presented  my  friend,  and  we  passed  the  evening  in  her  dan- 
gerous company.  After  making  an  engagement  to  accompany  her 
in  the  morning  behind  the  sheet  of  the  Fall,  we  said  "  Good-night" 
at  twelve — one  of  us  at  least  as  many  "  fathoms  deep  in  love"  as 
a  thousand  Kosalinds.  My  poor  chum  !  The  roar  of  the  cata- 
ract that  shook  the  very  roof  over  thy  head  was  less  loud  to  thee 
that  night  than  the  beating  of  thine  own  heart,  I  warrant  mo  ! 

I  rose  at  suniise  to  go  alone  to  the  Fall,  but  Job  was  before  mo, 
and  the  angular  outline  of  his  gaunt  fi^rire,  stretching  up  from 
Table  Rock  in  strong  relief  against  the  white  body  of  the  spray, 
was  the  first  object  that  caught  my  eye  as  I  descended. 

As  I  came  nearer  the  Fall,  a  feeling  of  disappointment  came 
over  me.  I  had  imagined  Niagara  a  vast  body  of  water  descend- 
ing as  if  from  the  clouds.  The  approach  to  most  falls  ys,  from  ht- 
In/r,  and  wc  get  an  idea  of  them  as  of  rivers  pitching  down  to  the 


156  ANALYSIS  OF  GRANDEUK. 


plain  from  the  brow  of  a  hill  or  mountain.  Niagara  River,  oi 
the  contrary,  comes  out  from  Lake  Erie  through  a  flat  plain.  Th(» 
top  of  the  cascade  is  ten  feet,  perhaps,  below  the  level  of  the  coun- 
try around — consequently  invisible  from  any  considerable  distance. 
You  walk  to  the  bank  of  a  broad  and  rapid  river,  and  look  over 
the  edge  of  a  rock,  where  the  outlet  flood  of  an  inland  sea  seems 
to  have  broken  through  the  crust  of  the  earth,  and,  by  its 
mere  weight,  plunged  with  an  awful  leap  into  an  immeasurable 
and  resounding  abyss.  It  seems  to  strike  and  thunder  upon  the 
very  centre  of  the  world,  and  the  ground  beneath  your  feet 
quivers  with  the  shock  till  you  feel  unsafe  upon  it. 

Other  disappointment  than  this  I  cannot  conceive  at  Niagara. 
It  is  a  spectacle  so  awful,  so  beyond  the  scope  and  power  of 
every  other  phenomenon  in  the  world,  that,  I  think,  people  who 
are  disappointed  there  mistake  the  incapacity  of  their  own  con- 
ception for  the  want  of  grandeur  in  the  scene. 

The  "  hell  of  waters"  below  needs  but  a  little  red  ochre  to  out 
Phlegethon  Phlegethon.  I  can  imagine  the  surprise  of  the  gentle 
element,  after  sleeping  away  a  se'nnight  of  moonlight  in  the  peace- 
ful bosom  of  Lake  Erie,  at  finding  itself  of  a  sudden  in  such  a 
coil !  A  Mediterranean  sea-gull,  which  had  tossed  out  the  whole 
of  a  January  in  the  infernal  "  yeast"  of  the  Archipelago,  (was  I 
not  all  but  wrecked  every  day  between  Troy  and  Malta  in  a  score 
of  successive  hurricanes }) — I  say,  the  most  weather-beaten  of 
sea-birds  would  look  twice  before  he  ventured  upon  the  roaring 
cauldron  below  Niagara.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  far  the  de- 
scending mass  is  driven  under  the  surface  of  the  stream.  As  far 
down  towards  Lake  Ontario  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  immense 
volumes  of  water  rise  like  huge  monsters  ^o  the  light,  boiling  and 


EARLIER  DAYS.  I57 

flashing  out  in  rings  of  foam,  with  an  appearance  of  rage  and 
anger  that  I  have  seen  in  no  other  cataract  in  the  world. 

"  A  nice  ftill,  as  an  Englishman  would  say,  my  dear  Job  " 

"Awful!" 

Halleck,  the  ximericau  poet  (a  better  one  never  "strung 
pearls"J,  has  written  some  admirable  verses  on  Niagara,  desciib- 
ing  its  effect  on  the  different  individuals  of  a  mixed  party,  among 
whom  was  a  tailor.  The  sea  of  incident  that  has  broken  over  me 
in  the  years  of  travel,  has  washed  out  of  my  memory  all  but  the 
two  lines  descriptive  of  its  impression  upon  Snip  : — 

"  The  tailor  made  one  single  note — 

'  Gods  !  what  a  place  to  sponge  a  coat !' " 

"  Shall  we  go  to  breakfast,  Job  ?" 

"  How  slowly  and  solemnly  they  drop  into  the  abysm  !" 

It  was  not  an  original  remark  of  Mr.  Smith's.  Nothing  is  so 
surprising  to  the  observer  as  the  extraordinary  deliberateness  with 
which  the  waters  of  Niagara  take  their  tremendous  plunge.  All 
hurry  and  foam  and  fret,  till  they  reach  the  smooth  limit  of  the 
curve — and  then  the  laws  of  gravitation  seem  suspended,  and,  like 
Caesar,  they  pause,  and  determine,  since  it  is  inevitable,  to  take 
the  death-leap  with  becoming  dignity. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  breakfast,  Job  .?"  I  was  obliged  to  raise  my 
voice,  to  be  heard,  to  a  pitch  rather  exhausting  to  an  empty  sto- 
mach. 

His  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the  shifting  rainbows  bending  and 
vanishing  in  the  spray.  There  was  no  moving  him,  and  I  gave 
in  for  another  five  minutes. 

"  Do  you  think  it  probable,  Jjb,  that  the  waters  of  Niagara 
strike  on  the  axis  of  the  world .'" 


158  THE  WEAR  OF  NIAGARA 


No  answer. 

"  Job !" 

"What?" 

"  Do  jou  tliink  His  Majesty's  half  of  the  cataract  is  finer  than 
ours  ?" 

"  Much." 

"  For  water ^  merely,  perhaps.  But  look  at  the  delicious  ver- 
dure on  the  American  shore,  the  glorious  trees,  the  massed  foliage, 
the  luxuriant  growth  even  to  the  very  rim  of  the  ravine !  By 
Jove  !  it  seems  to  me  things  grow  better  in  a  republic.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  more  barren  and  scraggy  shore  than  the  one  you  stand 
upon  .?" 

"  How  exquisitely,"  said  Job,  soliloquizing,  "  that  small  green 
island  divides  the  Fall !  What  a  rock  it  must  be  founded  on,  not 
to  have  been  washed  away  in  the  ages  that  those  waters  have  split 
against  it  !" 

"I'll  lay  you  a  bet  it  is  washed  away  before  the  year  two  thou- 
sand— payable  in  any  currency  with  which  we  may  then  be  con- 
versant." 

"  Don't  trifle  !" 

"  With  time,  or  geology,  do  you  mean }  Isn't  it  perfectly 
clear  from  the  looks  of  that  ravine,  that  Niagara  has  haclxed  up  all 
the  way  from  Lake  Ontario  ?  These  rocks  are  not  adamant,  and 
the  very  precipice  you  stand  on  has  cracked,  and  looks  ready  for 
the  plunge.*  It  must  gradually  wear  back  to  Lake  Erie,  and 
then  there  will  be  a  sweep,  I  should  like  to  live  long  enough  to 
see  The  instantaneous  junction  of  two  seas,  with  a  difference  of 
two  hundred  foot  in  their  levels,  will  be  a  spectacle — eh.  Job  ?" 

*  It  has  since  fallen  into  the  abyss — fortunately  in  the  night,  as  visitors 
were  ahvays  upon  it  during  the  day.  The  noise  was  heard  at  an  incrediblfc 
dista; 


EARLIER  DAYS.  I59 

"  Tremendous!'' 

"  Do  you  intend  to  Trait  and  see  it,  or  will  you  come  te  break- 
fast?" 

He  was  immovable.  1  left  Lim  on  the  rock,  went  up  to  the 
hotel  and  ordered  mutton-chops  and  coffee,  and,  when  they  were 
on  the  table,  gave  two  of  the  waiters  a  dollar  each  to  bring  him  up 
nolejis-vokns.  He  arrived  in  a  great  rage,  but  with  a  good  appe- 
tite, and  we  finished  our  breakfast  just  in  time  to  meet  Miss , 

as  she  stepped  like  Aurora  from  her  chamber. 

It  is  necessary  to  a  reputation  for  prowess  in  the  United  States 
to  have  been  behind  the  sheet  of  the  Fall  (supposing  you  to  have 
been  to  Niagara).  This  achievement  is  equivalent  to  a  hundred 
shower-baths,  one  severe  cold,  and  being  drowned  twice — but 
most  people  do  it. 

We  descended  to  the  bottom  of  the  precipice,  at  the  side  of  the 
Fall,  where  we  found  a  small  house,  furnished  with  coarse  linen 
dresses  for  the  purpose,  and,  having  arranged  ourselves  in  habili- 
ments not  particularly  improving  to  our  natural  beauty,  we  reap- 
peared— only  three  out  of  a  party  of  ten  having  had  the  courage 

to  trust  their  attractions  to  such  a  trial.     Miss looked  like 

a  fairy  in  disguise,  and  Job  like  the  most  ghostly  and  diabolical 
monster  that  ever  stalked  unsepultured  abroad.  He  would 
frighten  a  child,  in  his  best  black  suit — but,  with  a  pair  of  wet 
linen  trowsers  scarcely  reaching  to  his  knees,  a  jacket  with  sleeves 
shrunk  to  the  elbows,  and  a  white  cap,  he  was  something  super- 
naturally  awful.  The  guide  hesitated  about  going  under  the  Fall 
with  him. 

It  looked  rather  appalling.  Our  way  lay  through  a  dense,  de- 
scending sheet  of  water,  along  a  slender  pathway  of  rocks,  broken 
into  small  fragments,  with  an  overhanging  wall  on  one  side,  and 


leO  UNDER  THE  CASCADE. 


the  boiling  cauldron  of  the  cataract  on  the  other.     A  false  step, 
and  you  were  a  subJ3Ct  for  the  "  shocking  accident"  maker. 

The  guide  went  first,  taking  Miss 's  right  hand.     She  gave 

me  her  left,  and  Job  brought  up  the  rear,  as  they  say  in  Connecti 
cut,  "  on  his  own  hook."  We  picked  our  way  boldly  up  to  the 
water.  The  wall  leaned  over  so  much,  and  the  fragmented  decli- 
Tity  was  so  narrow  and  steep,  that,  if  it  had  not  been  done  before, 
I  should  have  turned  back  at  once.  Two  steps  more,  and  the 
small  hand  in  mine  began  to  struggle  violently,  and,  in  the  same 
instant,  the  torrent  beat  into  my  eyes,  mouth,  and  nostrils,  and  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  drowning.  I  staggered  a  blind  step  onward,  but 
still  the  water  poured  into  my  nostrils,  and  the  conviction  rushed 
for  a  moment  on  my  mind  that  we  were  lost.  I  struggled  for 
breath,  stumbled  forward,  and,  with  a  gasp  that  I  thought  was  my 
last,  sunk  upon  the  rocks  within  the  descending  waters.  Job 
tumbled  over  me  the  next  instant,  and,  as  soon  as  I  could  clear 
my  eyes  sufficiently  to  look  about  me,  I  saw  the  guide  sustaining 

Miss who  had  been  as  nearly  drowned  as  most  of  the  subjects 

of  the  Humane  Society,  but  was  apparently  in  a  state  of  resuscita- 
tion.    None  but  the  half-drowned  know  the  pleasure  of  breathing. 

Here  we  were,  within  a  chamber  that  Undine  might  have  covet- 
ed, a  wall  of  rock  at  our  back,  and  a  transparent  curtain  of  shift- 
ing water  between  us  and  the  world,  having  entitled  ourselves  a 
peu  pres  to  the  same  reputation  with  Hylas  and  Lcander,  for  se- 
duction by  the  Naiads. 

Whatever  sister  of  Arethusa  inhabits  there,  we  could  but  con- 
gratulate her  on  the  beauty  of  her  abode.  A  lofty  and  well-lighted 
hall,  shaped  like  a  long  pavilion,  extended  as  far  as  we  could  see 
through  the  spray,  and,  with  the  two  objections,  that  you  could  not 
have  heard  a  pistol  at  your  ear  for  the  noise,  and  that  the  floor  was 


EARLIER  DAYS.  16 1 


somewhat  prccipitouSj  one  could  scarce  imagine  a  more  agreeable 
ft'treat  for  a  gontlemau  who  was  disgusted  with  the  world,  and 
sai'ject  to  dryness  of  the  skin.  In  one  respect  it  resembled  the 
enchanted  dwelling  of  the  Witch  of  Atlas,  where,  Shelley  tells 
us — 

"  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 
A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn." 

It  is  lucky  for  Witches  and  Xaiads  that  they  are  not  subject  to 
rheumatism. 

The  air  was  scarcely  breathable — (if  air  it  may  be  called, 
which  streams  down  the  face  with  the  density  of  a  shower  from  a 
watering-pot),  and  our  footing  upon  the  slippery  rocks  was  so  in- 
secure, that  the  exertion  of  continually  wiping  our  eyes  was  at- 
tended with  immment  danger.  Our  sight  was  valuable,  for  surely, 
never  was  such  a  brilliant  curtain  hung  up  to  the  sight  of  mortals, 
as  spread  apparently  from  the  zenith  to  our  feet,  changing  in 
thickness  and  lustre,  but  with  a  constant  and  resplendent  curve. 
It  was  what  a  child  might  imagine  the  arch  of  the  sky  to  be  where 
it  bends  over  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 

The  sublime  is  certainly  very  much  diluted  when  one  contem- 
plates it  with  his  back  to  a  dripping  and  slimy  rock,  and  his  per- 
son saturated  with  a  continual  supply  of  water.  From  a  dry  win- 
dow, I  think  the  infernal  writhe  and  agony  of  the  abyss  into  which 
we  were  continually  liable  to  slip,  would  have  been  as  fine  a  thing 
as  I  have  seen  in  my  travels ;  but  I  am  free  to  admit,  that,  at  the 
moment,  I  would  have  exchanged  my  experience  and  aU  the 
honor  attached  to  it,  for  a  dry  escape.  The  idea  of  drowning 
hack  through  that  thick  column  of  water,  was  at  least  a  damper 
to  enthusiasm.  We  seemed  cut  03"  from  the  living.  There  was 
a  death  between  us  and  the  vital  air  and  sunshine. 


162  A  RISK. 


I  was  screwing  up  my  courage  for  the  return,  wlien  the  guide 
seized  me  hy  the  shoulder.     I  looked  around,  and  what  was  my 

horror  to  see  Miss standing  far  in,  behind  the  sheet,  upon  the 

last  visible  point  of  rock,  with  the  water  pouring  over  her  in  tor- 
rents, and  a  gulf  of  foam  between  us,  which  I  could  in  no  way 
understand  how  she  had  passed  over. 

She  seemed  frightened  and  pale ;  and  the  guide  explained  to  me, 
by  signs,  (for  I  could  not  distinguish  a  syllable,  through  the  roar 
of  the  cataract,)  that  she  had  walked  over  a  narrow  ledge,  which 
had  broken  with  her  weight.  A  long,  fresh  mark,  upon  the  rock, 
at  the  foot  of  the  precipitous  wall,  made  it  sufficiently  evident : 
her  position  was  most  alarming. 

I  made  a  sign  to  her,  to  look  well  to  her  feet ;  for  the  little 
island  on  which  she  stood  was  green  with  slime,  and  scarce  larger 
than  a  hat ;  and  an  abyss,  of  full  six  feet  wide,  foaming  and  un- 
fathomable, raged  between  it  and  the  nearest  foothold.  Whai. 
was  to  be  done  ?  Had  we  a  plank,  even,  there  was  no  possible 
hold  for  the  further  extremity ;  and  the  shape  of  the  rock  was  so 
conical,  that  its  slippery  surface,  evidently,  would  not  hold  a  rope 
for  a  moment.  To  jump  to  her,  even  if  it  were  possible,  would 
endanger  her  life  ;  and  when  I  was  smiling,  and  encouraging  the 
beautiful  creature,  as  she  stood  trembling  and  pale  on  her  dan- 
gerous foothold,  I  felt  my  very  heart  sick  within  me. 

The  despairing  guide  said  something,  which  I  could  not  hear, 
and  disappeared  through  the  watery  wall ;  and  I  fixed  my  eyes 
upon  the  lovely  form,  standing,  like  a  spirit,  in  the  misty  shroud 
of  the  spray,  as  if  the  intensity  of  my  gaze  could  sustain  her 
upon  her  dangerous  foothold.  I  would  have  given  ten  years  of 
my  life,  at  that  moment,  to  have  clasped  her  hand  in  mine. 

I  had  scarce  thought  of  Job,  until  I  felt  him  trying  to  pass 


EARLIER  DAYS.  163 


behind  me.  His  liand  was  trembling,  as  he  laid  it  on  my  shoul- 
der, to  steady  his  steps  ;  but  there  was  something,  in  his  ill-hewn 
features,  that  shot  an  indefinable  ray  of  hope  through  my  mind. 
His  sandy  hair  was  plastered  over  his  forehead,  and  his  scant 
dress  clung  to  him  like  a  skin ;  but,  though  I  recall  his  imag6 
iioio^  with  a  smile,  I  looked  upon  him  with  a  feeling  far  enough 
from  amusement  then.  God  bless  thee,  my  dear  Job  !  wherever, 
in  this  unfit  world,  thy  fine  spirit  may  be  fulfilling  its  destiny  ! 

He  crept  down  carefully  to  the  edge  of  the  foaming  abyss,  till 
he  stood  with  the  breaking  bubbles  at  his  knees.  I  was  at  a  loss 
to  know  what  he  intended.  She,  surely,  would  not  dare  to  at- 
tempt a  jump  to  his  arms,  from  that  slippery  rock ;  and  to  reach 
her,  in  any  way,  seemed  impossible. 

The  next  instant  he  threw  himself  forward  ;  and,  while  I  cov- 
ered my  eyes  in  horror,  with  the  flashing  conviction  that  he  had 
gone  mad,  and  flung  himself  into  the  hopeless  whirlpool,  to  reach 
her,  she  had  crossed  the  awful  gulf,  and  lay  trembling  and  ex- 
hausted at  my  feet !  He  had  thrown  himself  over  the  chasm, 
caught  the  rock  barely  with  the  extremities  of  his  fingers,  and, 
with  certain  death  if  he  missed  his  hold,  or  slipped  from  his  un- 
certain tenure,  had  sustained  her  with  supernatural  strength,  as 
she  walked  over  his  body  ! 

The  guide,  providentially,  returned  with  a  rope,  in  the  same 
instant,  and  fastening  it  around  one  of  his  feet,  we  dragged  him 
back  through  the  whirlpool ;  and,  after  a  moment  or  two  to  re- 
cover from  the  sufibcating  immersion,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and  we 
joined  him,  I  doubt  not,  devoutly,  in  his  inaudible  thanks  to  God 


164  NIAGARA  FERRY. 

II. LAKE     ONTARIO. 

The  next  bravest  achievement  to  venturing  behind  the  sheet 
of  Nia-T-ara,  is  to  cross  the  river,  in  a  small  boat,  at  some  distance 
below  the  Phlegethon  of  the  abyss.  I  should  imagine  it  were 
something  like  riding  in  a  howdah,  on  a  swimming  elephant. 
The  immense  masses  of  water,  driven  under  by  the  Fall,  rise, 
splashing  and  fuming,  far  down  the  river ;  and  they  are  as  unlike 
a  common  wave,  to  ride^  as  a  horse  and  a  camel.  You  are,  per- 
haps, ten  or  fifteen  minutes  pulling  across,  and  you  may  get  two 
or  three  of  these  lifts,  which  shove  you  straight  into  the  air, 
about  ten  feet,  and  then  drop  you  into  the  cup  of  an  eddy,  as  if 
some  long-armed  Titan  had  his  hand  under  the  water,  and  were 
tossing  you  up  and  down  for  his  amusement.  It  imports  lovers 
to  take  heed  how  their  mistresses  are  seated  ;  as  all  ladies,  on 
these  occasions,  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  the  nearest 
"hose  and  doublet." 

Job  and  I  went  over  to  dine  on  the  American  side,  and  refresh 
our  patriotism*.  We  dined  under  a  hickory- tree,  on  Groat  Island, 
just  over  the  glassy  cui've  of  the  cataract ;  and,  as  we  grew  joy- 
ous, with  our  champagne,  we  strolled  up  to  the  point  where  the 
waters  divide  for  the  American  and  British  Falls  ;  and  Job  ha- 
rangued the  "  mistaken  gentleman  on  his  right,"  in  eloquence 
that  would  have  turned  a  division  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
The  deluded  multitude,  however,  rolled  away  in  crowds,  for  the 
monarchy  ;  and,  at  the  close  of  his  speech,  the  British  Fall  was 
Btill,  by  a  melancholy  majority,  the  largest.  We  walked  back  to 
our  bottle,  like  foiled  patriots ;  and  soon  after,  hopeless  of  our 
piinciples,  went  over  to  the  other  side,  too ! 

I  advise  aU  people,  going  to  Niagara,  to  suspend  making  a  note 


EARLIER  DAYS.  1^5 


in  tlieir  journal,  till  the  last  day  of  their  visit.  You  might  as 
well  teach  a  child  the  magnitude  of  the  heavens,  by  pointing  to 
the  sky  with  your  finger,  as  comprehend  Niagara  in  a  day.  It 
has  to  create  its  own  mighty  place  in  your  mind.  You  have  no 
comparison,  through  which  it  can  enter.  It  is  too  vast.  The 
imagination  shrinks  from  it.  It  rolls  in  gradually,  thunder  upon 
thunder,  and  plunge  upon  plunge ;  and  the  mind  labors  with  it, 
to  an  exhaustion  such  as  is  created  only  by  the  extremest  intel- 
lectual eflfort.  I  have  seen  men  sit  and  gaze  upon  it,  in  a  cool 
day  of  autumn,  with  the  perspiration  standing  on  their  foreheads, 
ill  large  beads,  from  the  unconscious,  but  toilsome  agony  of  its 
conception.  After  haunting  its  precipices,  and  looking  on  its 
solemn  waters,  for  seven  days,  sleeping  with  its  wind-played  mo- 
notony in  your  ears,  dreaming,  and  returning  to  it,  till  it  has 
grown  the  one  object,  as  it  will,  of  your  perpetual  thought,  you 
feel,  all  at  once,  like  one  who  has  compassed  the  span  of  some 
almighty  problem.  It  has  stretched  itself  within  you.  Your 
capacity  has  attained  the  gigantic  standard,  and  you  feel  an  eleva- 
tion, and  breadth  of  nature,  that  could  measure  girth  and  stature 
with  a  seraph.  We  had  fairly  "  done"  Niagara.  We  had  seen 
it  by  sunrise,  sunset,  and  moonlight — from  top  and  bottom — fast- 
ing and  full — alone  and  together.  We  had  learned,  by  heait, 
every  green  path  on  the  island  of  perpetual  dew,  which  is  set  like 
an  imperial  emerald,  on  its  front,  (a  poetical  idea  of  my  own, 
much  admired  by  Job;)  we  had  been  grave,  gay,  tender,  and 
sublime,  in  its  mighty  neighborhood ;  we  had  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  the  base  of  its  broad  thunder,  that  it  seemed  to  us  like 
a  natural  property  in  the  air,  and  we  were  unconscious  of  it  for 
hours  ;  our  voices  had  become  so  tuned  to  its  key,  and  our 
thoughts  so  tmged  by  its   grand   and  perpetual   anthem,  that  I 


166  A  SOUL  MISPLACJ:  1). 


almost  doubted  if  the  air,  beyond  tbe  reach  of  its  vibrations, 
would  not  agonize  us  with  its  unnatural  silence,  and  the  common 
features  of  the  world  seem  of  an  unutterable  and  frivolous  little- 


We  were  eating  our  last  breakfast  there,  in  tender  melancholy 

— mine  for  the  Falls,  and  Job's  for  the  Falls  and  Miss ,  to 

whom  I  had  a  half  suspicion,  that  he  had  made  a  declaration. 

"Job!"  said  I. 

He  looked  up  from  his  egg. 

'^My  dear  Job!" 

"  Don't  allude  to  it,  my  dear  chum,"  said  he,  dropping  his 
spoon,  and  rushing  to  the  window,  to  hide  his  agitation.  It  was 
quite  clear. 

I  could  scarce  restrain  a  smile.  Psyche,  in  the  embrace  of  a 
respectable  giraffe,  would  be  the  first  thought,  in  anybody's  mind, 
who  should  see  them  together.  And  yet,  why  should  he  not  woo 
her — and  win  her,  too  ?  He  had  saved  her  life  in  the  extremest 
peril,  at  the  most  extreme  hazard  of  his  own ;  he  had  a  heart  as 
high  and  worthy,  and  as  capable  of  an  undying  worship  of  her,  as 
she  would  find  in  a  wilderness  of  lovers ;  he  felt  like  a  graceful 
man,  and  acted  like  a  brave  one,  and  was  sans  jpeur  et  sans  re- 
procke  ;  and  why  should  he  not  love  like  other  men  ?  My  dear 
Job  !  I  fear  thou  wilt  go  down  to  thy  grave,  and  but  one  woman 
in  this  wide  world  v/ill  have  loved  thee — thy  mother  !  Thou  art 
the  soul  of  a  preiix  chevalier,  in  the  body  of  some  worthy  grave- 
digger,  who  is  strutting  about  the  world,  perhajjs,  in  thy  more 
proper  carcass.     These  angels  are  o'er  hasty  in  packing ! 

We  got  upon  our  horses,  and  had  a  pleasant  amble  before  us, 
of  fifteen  miles,  on  the  British  side  of  the  river.  We  cantered 
off  stoutly  for  a  mile,  to   settle  our  regrets  ;  and  then  I  pulled 


EARLIER  DAYS.  167 


up,  and  requested  Job  to  ride  near  me,  as  I  had  something  to  say 
to  him. 

"  You  are  entering,"  said  I,  ^'  my  dear  Job,  upon  your  first 
journey  in  a  foreign  land.  You  will  see  other  manners  than  your 
own,  which  are  not,  therefore,  laughable,  and  hear  a  different 
pronunciation  from  your  own,  which  is  not,  therefore,  vulgar. 
You  are  to  mix  with  British  subjects,  whom  you  have  attacked 
vigorously  in  your  school  declamations,  as  "  the  enemy,"  but 
who  are  not,  therefore,  to  be  bullied  in  their  own  country,  and 
who  have  certain  tastes  of  their  own,  upon  which  you  had  better 
reserve  your  judgment.  We  have  no  doubt  that  we  are  the 
greatest  country  that  ever  was,  is,  or  ever  shall  be  ;  but,  as  this 
is  an  unpalatable  piece  of  information  to  other  nations,  we  will 
not  stuff  it  into  their  teeth,  unless  by  particular  request.  John 
Bull  likes  his  coat  too  small.  Let  him  wear  it.  John  Bull  pre- 
fers his  beefsteak  to  a  fricandeau.  Let  him  eat  it,  John  Bull 
will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  serve  you,  in  his  own  country,  if 
you  will  let  him.  Let  him.  John  Bull  will  suffer  you  to  find 
fault,  for  ever,  with  king,  lords,  and  commons,  if  you  do  not  com- 
pare them  invidiously  with  other  governments.  Let  the  com- 
parison alone.  In  short,  my  dear  chum,  as  we  insist  that  for- 
eigners should  adopt  our  manners  while  they  are  travelling  in  the 
United  States,  we  had  better  adopt  theirs  when  we  return  the 
visit.  They  are,  doubtless,  quite  wrong  throughout;  but  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  bristle  one's  back  against  the  opinions  of  some 
score  millions." 

The  foam  disappeared  from  the  stream,  as  we  followed  it  on, 
and  the  roar  of  the  Fails — 

*        *        *        «  Now  loud,  now  calm  again, 
Like  a  ring  of  bells,  whose  sound  the  wind  still  alters," 


168  PARTIALITY  FOR  WATER. 


was  soon  faint  on  our  cars,  and,  like  the  regret  of  parting,  les- 
sened with  the  increasing  distance,  till  it  was  lost.  Job  began  to 
look  around  him,  and  see  something  else  besides  a  lovely  face  in 
the  turnings  of  the  road  ;  and  the  historian  of  this  memorable 
journey,  who  never  had  but  one  sorrow  that  "  would  not  budge 
with  a  filip,"  rose  in  his  stirrups,  as  he  descried  the  broad  blue 
bosom  of  Lake  Ontario,  and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  (he  begs 
the  reader  to  believe)  the  most  suitable  quotation. 

Seeing  any  celebrated  water,  for  the  first  time,  was  always,  to 
me,  an  event.  River,  waterftill,  or  lake,  if  I  have  heard  of  it, 
and  thought  of  it,  for  years,  has  a  sensible  jpresence^  that  I  feel, 
like  the  approach  of  a  human  being,  in  whom  I  am  interested. 
My  heart  flutters  to  it.  It  is,  thereafter,  an  acquaintance  ;  and  I 
defend  its  beauty,  or  its  grandeur,  as  I  would  the  fair  fame  and 
worth  of  a  woman  who  had  shown  me  a  preference.  My  dear 
reader,  do  you  love  water  1  Not  to  drink — for,  I  own,  it  is  de- 
testable in  small  quantities  ;  but  water,  running  or  falling,  sleep- 
ing or  gliding,  tinged  by  the  sunset  glow,  or  silvered  by  the  gen- 
tle alchymist  of  the  midnight  heaven  }  Do  you  love  a  lake  } 
Do  you  love  a  river  .?  Do  you  "  affect"  any  one  laughing  and 
sparkling  brook,  that  has  flashed  on  your  eye  like  a  fay  overtaken 
by  the  cock-crowing,  and  tripping  away  slily  to  dream-land  i  As 
you  see  four  sisters,  and  but  one  to  love ;  so,  in  the  family  of  the 
elements,  I  have  a  tenderness  for  water. 

Lake  Ontario  spread  away  to  the  horizon,  glittering  in  the 
summer  sun,  boundless  to  the  eye  as  the  Atlantic ;  and,  directly 
beneath  us,  lay  the  small  town  of  Fort  Niagara,  with  the  steamer 
at  the  pier,  in  which  we  promised  ourselves  a  passage  down  the 
St.  Lawrence.  We  rode  on  to  the  hotel,  which  wo  found,  to  our 
surprise,  crowded  with  English   officers  ;  and.  luivlnn;  disposed  of 


EARLIER  DAYS.  169 

our  Narragansets,  we  inquired  the  hour  of  departure,  and  what 
we  could  eat  meantime,  in  as  nearly  the  same  breath  as  possiblo, 

"  Cold  leg  of  mutton,  and  the  steamboat's  engaged,  sir  !" 

The  mercury,  in  Job's  Britishometor,  fell  plump  to  zero.  The 
idea  of  a  monopoly  of  the  whole  steamer,  by  a  Colonel  and  his 
staff,  and  no  boat  again  for  a  week ! 

There  was  a  government  to  live  under  ! 

We  sat  down  to  our  mutton,  and  presently  enter  the  waiter. 

"  Colonel 's   compliments  ;    hearing   that  two  gentlemen 

have  arrived,  who  expected  to  go  by  the  steamer,  he  is  happy  to 
offer  them  a  passage,  if  they  can  put  up  with  rather  crowded  ac- 
commodations." 

"  "Well,  Job  !  what  do  you  think  now  of  England,  politically, 
morally,  and  religiously }  Has  not  the  gentlemanlike  courtesy,  of 
one  individual,  materially  changed  your  opinions  upon  every  sub- 
ject connected  with  the  united  kingdom  of  Great  Britain  .^" 

^' It  has." 

"  Then,  my  dear  Job,  I  recommend  you,  never  again  to  read 
a  book  of  travels,  without  writing  down  on  the  margin  of  every 
bilious  chapter,  ''  probably  lost  his  passage  in  the  steamer,"  or, 
''  had  no  mustard  to  his  mutton,"  or,  ^'  could  find  no  ginger-nuts 
for  the  interesting  little  traveller,"  or  some  similar  annotation. 
Depend  upon  it,  that  dear,  delightful  Mrs.  Trollope,  would  never 
have  written  so  agreeable  a  book,  if  she  had  thriven  with  her 
bazaar  in  Cincinnati." 

We  paid  our  respects  to  the  Colonel,  and,  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  got  on  board.  Part  of  an  Irish  regiment  was  bivouacked 
on  the  deck,  and  happier  fellows  I  never  saw.  They  had  com- 
pleted their  nine  years'  service  on  the  three  Canadian  stations, 
and  were  returning  to  the  ould  country,  wives,  children,  and  all 
8 


170  AN  ELOPEMENT. 


A  line  was  drawn  across  the  deck,  reserving  the  after-quarter  for 
the  officers  ;  the  sick  were  disposed  of,  among  the  women  in  the 
bows  of  the  hoat ;  and  the  band  stood  ready  to  play  the  farewell 
air,  to  the  cold  shores  of  Upper  Canada, 

The  line  was  cast  off,  when  a  boy  of  thirteen  rushed  down  to 
the  pier,  and  springing  on  board  with  a  desperate  leap,  flew  from 
one  end  of  the  deck  to  the  other,  and  flung  himself,  at  last,  upon 
the  neck  of  a  pretty  girl  sitting  on  the  knee  of  one  of  the  pri- 
vates. 

**  Mary,  dear  Mary !"  was  all  he  could  utter.  His  sobs 
choked  him. 

"  Avast  with  the  line,  there !"  shouted  the  captain,  who  had 
no  wish  to  carry  off  this  unexpected  passenger.  The  boat  was 
again  swung  to  the  wharf,  and  the  boy  very  roughly  ordered 
ashore.  His  only  answer  was  to  cling  closer  to  the  girl,  and  re- 
double his  tears ;  and  by  this  time  the  Colonel  had  stepped  aft, 
and  the  case  seemed  sure  of  a  fair  trial.  The  pretty  Canadian 
dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom,  and  seemed  divided  between 
contending  emotions ;  and  the  soldier  stood  up,  and  raised  his  cap 
to  his  commanding  officer,  but  held  firmly  by  her  hand.  The  boy 
threw  himself  on  his  knees  to  the  colonel,  but  tried  in  vain  ta 


"  Who's  this,  O'Shane  .?"  asked  the  officer. 
"  Sure,  my  sweetheart,  your  honor." 
"  And,  how  dare  you  bring  her  on  board,  sir .?" 
"  Och,  she'll  go  to  ould  Ireland  wid  us,  your  honor." 
**  No,  no,  no  !"  cried  the  convulsed  boy,  clasping  the  Colonel's 
knees,  and  sobbing,  as  if  his  heart  would  break  ;  "  she's  my  sis- 
ter !     She  isn't  his  wife  !     Father'll  die,  if  she  does  !     She  can't 
go  with  him  !     She  sha^nH  go  with  him  !" 


EARLIER  DAYS.  171 

Job  began  to  snivel,  and  I  felt  uarm  about  the  oyes,  myself. 

*'  Have  you  got  a  wife,  O'Sliane  .^"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"  Plase  your  honor,  never  a  bit,"  said  Paddy.  He  was  a 
tight,  good-looking  fellow,  by  the  way,  as  you  would  wish  to  see. 

"  "Well ;  we'll  settle  this  thing  at  once.  Get  up,  my  little  fel- 
low 1  Come  here,  my  good  girl !  Do  you  love  O'Shane  well 
enough  to  be  his  wife  .^" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir!"  said  Mary,  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  back 
of  her  hand,  and  stealing  a  look  at  the  "  six  feet  one,"  that  stood 
as  straight  as  a  pike  beside  her. 

"  O'Shane  !  I  allow  this  girl  to  go  with  us,  only  on  condition 
that  you  marry  her  at  the  first  place  where  we  can  find  a  priest. 
"We  will  make  her  up  a  bit  of  a  dowry,  and  I  will  look  after  her 
comfort  as  long  as  she  follows  the  regiment.  What  do  you  say, 
sir  ?     Will  you  marry  her  !" 

O'Shane  began  to  waver  in  his  military  position — from  a  full 
front  face,  getting  to  very  nearly  a  right-about.  It  was  plain  he 
was  taken  by  surprise.  The  eyes  of  the  company  were  on  him, 
however,  and  public  opinion,  which,  in  most  human  breasts,  is 
considerably  stronger  than  conscience,  had  its  efi'ect. 

"  I'll  do  it,  your  honor  !"  said  he,  bolting  it  out,  as  a  man 
volunteers  upon  a  ''  forlorn  hope." 

Tears  might  as  well  have  been  bespoken  for  the  whole  com- 
pany. The  boy  was  torn  from  his  sister's  neck,  and  set  ashore, 
in  the  arms  of  two  sailors  ;  and  poor  Mary,  very  much  in  doubt 
whether  she  was  happy  or  miserable,  sank  upon  a  heap  of  knap- 
sacks, and  buried  her  eyes  in  a  cotton  handkerchief,  with  a  map 
of  London  upon  it — probably  a  gage  cfamoiir  from  the  desaving 
O'Shane.  I  did  the  same  myself,  with  a  silk  one,  and  Job  item 
Item  the  Colonel  and  several  officers. 


172  INDIAN  ELOPEMENT. 


The  boat  was  shoved  off,  and  the  wheels  spattered  away  ;  but, 
as  far  as  we  could  hear  his  voice,  the  cry  came  following  on, 
"Mary,  Mary  !" 

It  rung  in  my  ears  all  night,  "  Mary,  Mary  !" 

I  was  up  in  the  morning  at  sunrise,  and  was  glad  to  escape 
from  the  confined  cabin,  and  get  upon  deck.  The  steamer  was 
booming  on  through  a  sea  as  calm  as  a  mirror,  and  no  land  visible. 
The  fresh  dewiness  of  the  morning  air  ashore  played  in  my 
nostrils,  and  the  smell  of  grass  was  perceptible  in  the  wind  ;  but, 
in  all  else,  it  was  like  a  calm  in  mid  ocean.  The  soldiers  were 
asleep  along  the  decks,  with  their  wives  and  children,  and  the 
pretty  runaway  lay  with  her  head  on  0 'Shane's  bosom,  her  red 
eyes,  and  soiled  finery,  showing  too  plainly  how  she  had  passed  the 
night.  Poor  Mary !  she  has  enough  of  following  a  soldier,  by 
this,  I  fear. 

I  stepped  forward,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  stand- 
ing against  the  railing,  on  the  larboard  bow,  the  motionless  fiojure 
of  an  Indian  girl  of  sixteen.  Her  dark  eye  was  fixed  on  the  line 
of  the  horizon  we  were  leaving  behind,  her  arms  were  folded  on 
her  bosom,  and  she  seemed  not  even  to  breathe.  A  common 
shawl  was  wrapped  carelessly  around  her,  and  another  glance 
betrayed  to  me,  that  she  was  in  a  situation  soon  to  become  a 
mother.  Her  feet  were  protected  by  a  pair  of  once  gaudy,  but 
now  shabby  and  torn  moccasins,  singularly  small ;  her  hands 
were  of  a  delicate  thinness,  unusual  to  her  race  ;  and  her  hollow 
cheeks,  and  forehead  marked  with  an  expression  of  pain,  told  all 
I  could  have  prophesied  of  the  history  of  a  white  man's  tender 
mercies.  I  approached  very  near,  quite  unperceived.  A  small 
burning  spot,  was  just  perceptible  in  the  centre  of  her  dark 
cheek  ;  and,  as  I  looked  at  her  steadfastly,  I  could  see  a  working 


EARLIER  DATS. 


173 


of  tlic  muscles  of  her  dusky  brow,  which  betrayed,  in  one  of  a 
race  so  trained  to  stony  calmness,  an  unusual  fever  of  feeling.  I 
looked  around  for  the  place  in  which  she  must  have  slept.  A 
mantle  of  wampum-work,  folded  across  a  heap  of  confused  bao-- 
gage,  partly  occupied  as  a  pillow  by  a  brutal-looking  and  sleeping 
soldier,  told,  at  once,  the  main  part  of  her  story.  I  felt  for  her, 
from  my  soul ! 

"  You  can  hear  the  great  waterfall  no  more,"  I  said,  touching 
her  arm. 

"  I  hear  it,  when  I  think  of  it,"  she  replied,  turning  her  eyes 
upon  me  as  slowly,  and  with  as  little  surprise,  as  if  I  had  been 
talking  to  her  an  hour. 

I  pointed  to  the  sleeping  soldier.  "  Are  you  going  with  him  to 
his  country  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Are  you  his  wife  ?" 

"  My  father  gave  me  to  him." 

"  Has  he  sworn  before  the  priest,  in  the  name  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  to  be  your  husband  .^" 

"  No."  She  looked  intently  into  my  eyes,  as  she  answered,  as 
if  she  tried,  in  vain,  to  read  my  meaning. 

"Is  he  kind  to  you  }" 

She  smiled,  bitterly. 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  follow  him  }  ' 

Her  eyes  dropped  upon  the  burden  she  bore  at  her  heart.  The 
answer  could  not  have  been  clearer  if  written  with  a  sunbeam.  I 
said  a  few  words  of  kindness,  and  left  her,  to  turn  over  in  my 
mind  how  I  could  better  interfere  for  her  happiness. 


174  THOUSAND  ISLES. 


III. THE    ST.    LAWRENCE. 

On  the  third  evening  we  had  entered  upon  the  St.  Lawrence, 
and  were  winding  cautiously  into  the  channel  of  the  Thousand 
Isles.  I  think  there  is  not,  within  the  knowledge  of  the  "  all- 
beholding  sun,"  a  spot  so  singularly  and  exquisitely  beautiful.  Be- 
tween the  Mississippi  and  the  Cimmerian  Bosphorus,  I  know 
there  is  not,  for  I  have  pic-nicked  from  the  Symplegades  west- 
ward. The  Thousand  Isles  of  the  St.  Lawrence  are  as  imprinted 
on  my  mind,  as  the  stars  of  heaven.  I  could  forget  them  as 
soon. 

The  river  is  here  as  wide  as  a  lake,  while  the  channel  just  per- 
mits the  passage  of  a  steamer.  The  islands,  more  than  a  thou- 
sand in  number,  are  a  singular  formation  of  flat,  rectangular 
rock,  split,  as  it  were,  by  regular  mathematical  fissures,  and 
overflowed  nearly  to  the  tops,  which  are  loaded  with  a  most  luxu- 
riant vegetation.  Thoy  vary  in  size,  but  the  generality  of  them 
would  about  accommodate  a  tea-party  of  six.  The  water  is  deep 
enough  to  float  a  large  steamer  directly  at  the  edge,  and  an  active 
deer  would  leap  across  from  one  to  the  other,  in  any  direction. 
What  is  very  singular,  these  little  rocky  platforms  are  covered 
with  a  rich  loam,  and  carpeted  with  moss  and  flowers,  while  im- 
mense trees  take  root  in  the  clefts,  and  interlace  their  branches 
with  those  of  the  neighboring  islets,  shadowing  the  water  with  the 
unsunned  dimness  of  the  wilderness.  It  is  a  very  odd  thing  to 
glide  through  in  a  steamer.  The  luxuriant  leaves  sweep  the 
deck,  and  the  black  funnel  parts  the  drooping  sprays  as  it  keeps 
its  way ;  and  you  may  pluck  the  blossoms  of  the  acacia,  or  the 
rich  chestnut  flowers,  sitting  on  the  tafi"rail ;  and,  really,  a  magic 
passage  in  a  witch's  steamer,  beneath  the   tree-tops  of  an  un- 


EARLIER  PAYS.  175 


trodden  forest,  could  not  be  more  novel  and  startling.  Then  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  the  dim  and  still  waters,  are  continually 
broken  by  the  plunge  and  leap  of  the  wild  deer  springing  or  swim- 
ming from  one  island  to  another,  and  the  swift  and  shadowy  canoe 
of  the  Indian  glides  out  from  some  unseen  channel,  and,  with  a 
single  stroke  of  his  broad  paddle,  he  vanishes,  and  is  lost  again, 
even  to  the  ear.  If  the  beauty-sick  and  nature-searching  spirit 
of  Keats  is  abroad  in  the  world,  "  my  basnet  to  a  'prentice  cap," 
he  passes  his  summers  amid  the  Thousand  Isles  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence !  I  would  we  were  there,  with  our  tea-things,  sweet  Rosa 
Matilda ! 

We  had  dined  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  were  sitting  over  the 
Colonel's  wine,  pulling  the  elm-leaves  from  the  branches,  as  they 
swept  saucily  over  the  table,  and  listening  to  the  band — ^who  were 
playing  waltzes,  that,  probably,  ended  in  the  confirmed  insanity 
of  every  wild  heron  and  red  deer,  that  happened,  that  afternoon, 
to  come  within  ear-shot  of  the  good  steamer  Queenston.  The 
paddles  began  to  slacken  in  their  spattering,  and  the  boat  came 
to,  at  the  sharp  side  of  one  of  the  largest  of  the  shadowy  islands. 
We  were  to  stop  an  hour  or  two,  and  take  in  wood. 

Everybody  was  soon  ashore  for  a  ramble,  leaving  only  the  Colo- 
nel, who  was  a  cripple  from  a  score  of  Waterloo  tokens,  and  your 
servant,  reader,  who  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"  Colonel !  will  you  oblige  me,  by  sending  for  Mahoney  ? 
Steward,  call  me  that  Indian  girl,  sitting  with  her  head  on  her 
knees,  in  the  boat's  bow." 

They  stood  before  us. 

"  How  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  the  Colonel ;  "  another  !  good  Grod ! 
these  Irishmen  !  Well,  sir  !  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  this 
girl,  now  that  you  have  ruined  her  .^" 


Ifff  SEQUEL  TO  A  LOVE. 


Mahoney  looked  at  her  out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye,  with  a  liber- 
tine contempt,  that  made  my  blood  boil.  The  girl  watched  for 
his  answer,  with  an  intense  but  calm  gaze  into  his  face,  that,  if  he 
had  had  a  soul,  would  have  killed  him.  Her  lips  were  set  firmly, 
but  not  fiercely,  together  ;  and,  as  the  private  stood  looking  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  unable,  or  unwilling  to  answer,  she  sup- 
pressed a  rising  emotion  in  her  throat,  and  turned  her  look  on 
the  commanding  officer,  with  a  proud  coldness  that  would  have 
become  Medea. 

"  Mahoney  !"  said  the  Colonel,  sternly,  "will  you  marry  this 
poor  girl  ?" 

"  Never,  I  hope,  your  honor  !" 

The  wasted  and  noble  creature  raised  her  burdened  form  to  its 
fullest  height,  and,  with  an  inaudible  murmur  bursting  from  her 
lips,  walked  back  to  the  bow  of  the  vessel.  The  Colonel  pur- 
Bued  his  conversation  with  Mahoney,  and  the  obstinate  brute  was 
still  refusing  the  only  reparation  he  could  make  the  poor  Indian, 
when  she  suddenly  reappeared.  The  shawl  was  no  longer  around 
her  shoulders.  A  coarse  blanket  was  bound  below  her  breast, 
with  a  belt  of  wampum,  leaving  her  fine  bust  entirely  bare,  her 
small  feet  trod  the  deck  with  the  elasticity  of  a  leopard  about  to 
leap  on  his  prey,  and  her  dark,  heavily-fringed  eyes,  glowed  like 
coals  of  fire.  She  seized  the  Colonel's  hand,  and  imprinted  a  kiss 
upon  it,  another  upon  mine,  and,  without  a  look  at  the  father  of 
her  child,  dived,  with  a  single  leap,  over  the  gangway.  She  rose 
directly  in  the  clear  water,  swam  with  powerful  strokes  to  one  of 
the  most  distant  islands  ;  and,  turning  once  more  to  wave  her 
hand,  as  she  stood  on  the  shore,  strode  on,  and  was  lost  in  the 
tangles  of  the  forest. 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT. 

"Notre  bonheur,  mon  cher,  se  tiendra  toujours  c^tre  la  plante  de  nos  pieds  et  notie 
occiput ;  et  qu'il  coute  un  million  par  an  ou  cent  louis,  la  perception  intrinsique  est 
la  mfeme  au-dedans  de  nous.'' — Le  P^re  Goriot. 

There  were  a  hundred  students  in  the  new  class  matriculated 
at  Yale  College,  in  Connecticut,  in  the  year  18 — .  They  were 
young  men  of  different  ages,  and  of  all  conditions  in  life,  but  less 
various  in  their  mien  and  breeding,  than  in  the  characteristics  of 
the  widely-separate  States  from  which  they  came.  It  is  not 
thought  extraordinary  in  Europe,  that  the  French  and  English, 
the  German  and  the  Italian,  should  possess  distinct  national 
traits ;  yet  one  American  is  supposed  to  be  like  every  other, 
though  the  two,  between  whom  the  comparison  is  drawn,  were 
born  and  bred  as  far  apart,  and  in  as  different  latitudes,  as  the 
Highland  cateran  and  the  brigand  of  Calabria. 

I  looked  around  me  with  some  interest,  when,  on  the  first  morn- 
ing of  the  term,  the  president,  professors,  and  students  of  the 
university,  assembled  in  the  college  chapel,  at  the  sound  of  the 
prayer-bell,  and,  with  my  brother  freshmen,  I  stood  in  the  side 
aisle,  closing  up,  with  our  motley,  and,  as  yet,  unclassical  heads 
and  habiliments,  the  long  files  of  the  more  initiated  classes.  The 
berry-brown  tan  of  the  sun  of  Greorgia,  unblanched  by  study,  was 
still  dark  and  deep  on  the  cheek  of  one ;  the  look  of  command, 
8* 


178  A  CHARACTER. 


breathing  through  the  indolent  attitude,  betrayed,  in  another,  the 
young  Carolinian  and  slave-master ;  a  coat  of  green,  garnished 
with  fur  and  bright  buttons,  and  shaped  less  by  the  tailor  than 
by  the  Herculean  and  expansive  frame  over  which  it  was  strained, 
had  a  taste  of  Kentucky  in  its  complexion ;  the  white  skin,  and 
red  or  sandy  hair,  cold  expression,  stiff  black  coat,  and  serious 
attention  to  the  service,  told  of  the  Puritan  son  of  New  Hamp- 
shire or  Vermont ;  and,  perked  up  in  his  well-fitted  coat,  the  ex- 
quisite of  the  class,  sto^d  the  slight  and  metropolitan  New- 
Yorker,  with  a  firm  belief  in  his  tailor  and  himself  written  on  his 
effeminate  lip,  and  an  occasional  look  at  his  neighbors'  coats  and 
shoulders,  that  might  have  been  construed  into  wonder,  upon 
what  western  river  or  mountain  dwelt  the  builders  of  such  coats 
and  men  ! 

Rather  annoyed,  at  last,  by  the  glances  of  one  or  two  seniors, 
who  were  amusing  themselves  with  my  simple  gaze  of  curiosity,  I 
turned  my  attention  to  my  more  immediate  neighborhood.  A 
youth,  with  close,  curling,  brown  hair,  rather  under-sized,  but  with 
a  certain  decision  and  nerve  in  his  lip  which  struck  me  imme- 
diately, and  which  seemed  to  express,  somehow,  a  confidence  in 
himself  which  his  limbs  scarce  bore  out,  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  pulpit,  and,  with  his  foot  on  the  seat,  and  his  elbow  on  his 
knee,  he  seemed  to  have  fallen,  at  once,  into  the  habit  of  the  place, 
and  to  be  beyond  surprise  or  interest.  As  it  was  the  custom  of 
the  college  to  take  places  at  prayers  and  recitation  alphabetically, 
and  he  was  likely  to  be  my  neighbor  in  chapel  and  hall  for  the 
next  four  years,  I  speculated  rather  more  than  I  should  else  have 
done,  on  his  face  and  manner ;  and,  as  the  president  came  to  his 
"  Amen,"  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that,  whatever  might  be  Mr. 


EARLIER  DAYS. 


179 


"S.'s"  capacity  for  friendship,  his  ill-will  would  be  very  demon- 
strative and  uncomfortable. 

The  term  went  on,  the  politics  of  the  little  republic  fermented, 
and,  as  first  appearances  wore  away,  or  peculiarities  wore  off  by  col- 
lision, or  developed  by  intimacy,  the  different  members  of  the  class 
rose  or  fell  in  the  general  estimation,  and  the  graduation  of  talent  and 
spirit  became  more  just  and  definite.  The  "  Southerners  and  Nor- 
therners," as  they  are  called,  soon  discovered,  like  the  classes 
that  had  gone  before  them,  that  they  had  no  qualities  in  common, 
and,  of  the  secret  societies  which  exist  among  the  students  in 
that  university,  joined  each  that  of  his  own  compatriots.  The 
Carolianian  or  Greorgian,  who  had  passed  his  life  on  a  plantation, 
secluded  from  the  society  of  his  equals,  soon  found  out  the  value 
of  his  chivalrous  deportment  and  graceful  indolence,  in  the  gay 
society  for  which  the  town  is  remarkable  ;  while  the  Yermontese, 
or  White-Mountaineer,  "  made  unfashionably,"  and  ill  at  ease  on 
a  carpet,  took  another  line  of  ambition,  and  sat  down  with  the  ad- 
vantage of  constitutional  patience  and  perseverance,  to  the  study 
which  he  would  find,  in  the  end,  a  "  better  continuer,"  even  in 
the  race  for  a  lady's  favor. 

It  was  the  only  republic  I  have  ever  known — that  class  of 
freshmen.  It  was  a  fair  arena  ;  and  neither  in  politics,  nor  so- 
ciety, nor  literature,  nor  love,  nor  religion,  have  I,  in  much 
searching  through  the  world,  found  the  same  fair  play  or  good 
feeling.  Talk  of  our  own  republic  ! — its  society  is  the  very  core 
and  gall  of  the  worst  growth  of  aristocracy.  Talk  of  the  republic 
of  letters  ! — the  two  graves  by  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius  laugh 
it  to  scorn.  Of  love  ! — of  religion.  What  is  bought  and  sold  like 
that  which  has  the  name  of  the  first }  What  is  made  a  snare  and 
a  tool  by  the  designing  like  the  last }     But  here — ^with  a  govern- 


180  NEW  HAVEN. 


ment  over  us  ever  kindly  and  paternal,  no  favor  shown,  and  no 
privilege  denied  ;  every  equality  in  tbe  competitors  at  all  possi- 
ble— age,  previous  education,  and,  above  all,  worldly  position 
— it  was  an  arena  in  which  a  generous  spirit  would  wrestle,  with 
an  abandon  of  heart  and  limb  he  might  never  know  in  the  world 
again.  Every  individual  rising  or  falling  by  the  estimation  ho 
exacts  of  his  fellows,  there  is  no  such  school  of  honor  ;  each,  of 
the  many  palms  of  scholarship,  from  the  severest  to  the  lightest, 
aiming  at  that  which  best  suits  his  genius,  and  as  welcome  as 
another  to  the  goal — there  is  no  apology  for  the  laggard.  Of  the 
feelings  that  stir  the  heart  in  our  youth — of  the  few,  the  very  few, 
which  have  no  recoil,  and  leave  no  repentance — this  leaping  from- 
the  start-post  of  mind,  this  first  spread  of  the  encouraged  wing 
in  the  free  heaven  of  thought  and  knowledge,  is  recorded  in  my 
own  slender  experience  as  the  most  joyous  and  the  most  un- 
mingled.  He  who  has  soiled  his  bright  honor  with  the  tools  of 
political  ambition — he  who  has  leant  his  soul  upon  the  chaiity  of 
a  sect  in  religion — he  who  has  loved,  hoped,  and  trusfcd,  in  the 
greater  arena  of  life  and  manhood — must  look  back  on  days  like 
these  as  the  broken-winged  eagle  to  the  sky — as  the  Indian's  sub- 
dued horse  to  the  prairie. 

II. 

New  Haven  is  not  alone  the  seat  of  a  university.  It  is  a  kind  of 
metropolis  of  education.  The  excessive  beauty  of  the  town,  with  its. 
embowered  streets  and  sunny  gardens,  the  refinement  of  its  society, 
its  central  position  and  accessibility,  and  the  facilities  for  attend- 
ing the  lectures  of  the  college  professors,  render  it  a  most  desira- 
ble place  of  instruction  in  every  department.  Among  others,  the 
female  schools  of  the  place  have  a  great  reputation,  and   this, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  igl 


which,  in  Europe,  or  with  a  European  state  of  society,  would  pro- 
bably be  an  evil,  is,  from  the  simple  and  frank  character  of  man- 
ners in  America,  a  mutual  and  decided  advantage.  The  daugh- 
ters of  the  first  families  of  the  country  are  sent  here,  committed 
for  two,  three,  and  four  years,  to  the  exclusive  care  of  the  head  of 
tho  establishment,  and  (as  one  of  the  privileges  and  advantages  of 
the  school)  associating  freely  with  the  general  society  of  the  town^, 
the  male  part,  of  course,  composed  principally  of  students.  A 
more  easy  and  liberal  intercourse  exists  in  no  society  in  the  world, 
and,  in  no  society  that  I  have  ever  seen,  is  the  tone  of  morals  and 
manners  so  high  and  unexceptionable.  Attachments  are  often 
formed,  and  little  harm  is  thought  of  it ;  and,  unless  it  is  a  very 
strong  case  of  disparity  or  objection,  no  obstacle  is  thrown  in  the 
way  of  the  common  intercourse  between  lovers  ;  and  the  lady  re- 
turns to  her  family,  and  the  gentleman  senior  disappears  with  his 
degree,  and  they  meet  and  marry — if  they  like.  If  they  do  not, 
the  lady  stands  as  well  in  the  matrimonial  market  as  ever,  and 
the  gentleman  (unlike  his  horse)  is  not  damaged  by  having  been 
on  his  knees. 

Like  "  Le  Noir  Faineant,"  at  the  tournament,  my  friend  St. 
John  seemed  more  a  looker-on  than  an  actor  in  the  various  pur- 
suits of  the  university.  A  sudden  interference  in  a  quarrel,  in 
which  a  brother  freshman  was  contending  against  odds,  enlighten- 
ed the  class  as  to  his  spirit  and  personal  strength  ;  he  acquitted 
himself  at  recitations  with  the  air  of  self-contempt  for  such  easy 
excellence  ;  he  dressed  plainly,  but  with  instinctive  taste  ;  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  first  term,  hav'ng  shrunk  from  all  intimacy,  and 
lived  alone  with  his  books  and  a  kind  of  trapper's  dog  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  west,  he  had  acquired  an  ascendancy 


182  A  STUDENT  FROM  THE  WOODS. 


in  the  opinion  of  the  class  for  which  no  one  could  well  account. 
but  to  which  every  one  unhesitatingly  assented. 

We  returned  after  our  first  short  vacation,  and  of  my  hundred 
classmates  there  was  but  one  whom  I  much  cared  to  meet  again. 
St.  John  had  passed  the  vacation  in  his  rooms,  and  my  evident 
pleasure  at  meeting  him,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to  open  his 
heart  to  me.  He  invited  me  to  breakfast  with  him.  By  favor 
seldom  granted  to  a  freshman,  he  had  a  lodging  in  the  town — the 
rest  of  the  class  being  compelled  to  live  with  a  chum  in  the  col- 
lege buildings.  I  found  his  rooms — (I  was  the  first  of  the  class 
who  had  entered  them) — more  luxuriously  furnished  than  I  had 
expected  from  the  simplicity  of  his  appearance,  but  his  books,  not 
many,  but  select,  and  (what  is  in  America  an  expensive  luxury) 
in  the  best  English  editions  and  superbly  bound,  excited  most  my 
envy  and  surprise.  How  he  should  have  acquired  tastes  of  such 
ultra-civilization  in  the  forests  of  the  west  was  a  mystery  that  re- 
mained to  be  solved. 

III. 

At  the  extremity  of  a  green  lane  in  the  outer  skirt  of  the  fash- 
ionable suburb  of  New  Haven  stood  a  rambling  old  Dutch  house, 
built  probably  when  the  cattle  of  Mynheer  grazed  over  the  pre- 
sent site  of  the  town.  It  was  a  wilderness  of  irregular  rooms,  of 
no  describable  shape  in  its  exterior,  and,  from  its  southern  balcony, 
to  use  an  expressive  Gallicism,  "gave  upon  the  bay."  Long 
Island  Sound,  the  great  highway  from  the  northei^n  Atlantic  to 
New  York,  weltered  in  alternate  lead  and  silver  (oftener  like  the 
brighter  metal,  for  the  climate  is  divine),  between  the  curving  lip 
of  the  bay  and  the  interminable  and  sandy  shore  of  the  island 
some  six  leagues  distant ;  the  procession  of  ships  and  steamers' 


EARLIER  DAYS.  183 

stole  past  with  an  imperceptible  progress  ;  the  ceaseless  hells  of 
the  college  chapel  came  deadened  through  the  trees  from  behind, 
and  (the  day  being  one  of  golden  autumn,  and  myself  and  St. 
John  waiting  while  black  Agatha  answered  the  door-bell)  the  sun- 
steeped  precipice  of  East  Rock,  with  its  tiara  of  blood-red  maples 
flushing  like  a  Turk's  banner  in  the  light,  drew  from  us,  both,  a 
truant  wish  for  a  ramble  and  a  holy  day.  I  shall  have  more  to  say 
anon  of  the  foliage  of  an  American  October  :  but  just  now,  while 
I  remember  it,  I  wish  to  record  a  belief  of  my  own,  that  if,  as 
philosophy  supposes,  we  have  lived  other  lives — (if 

"  our  star 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar")  — 

it  is  surely  in  the  days  tempered  like  the  one  I  am  remembering 
and  describing — profoundly  serene,  sunny  as  the  top  of  Olympus, 
heavenly  pure,  holy,  and  more  invigorating  and  intoxicating  than 
luxurious  or  balmy  ;  the  sort  of  air  that  the  visiting  angels  might 
have  brought  with  them  to  the  tents  of  Abraham — it  is  on  such 
days,  I  would  record,  that  my  own  memory  steps  back  over  the 
dim  threshold  of  life  (so  it  seems  to  me),  and  on  such  days  only. 
It  is  worth  the  translation  of  our  youth  and  our  household  gods  to 
a  sunnier  land,  if  it  were  alone  for  those  immortal  revelations. 

In  a  few  minutes  from  this  time  were  assembled,  in  Mrs.  Ilfring- 
ton's  drawing-room,  the  six  or  seven  young  ladies  of  my  more  par- 
ticular acquaintance  among  her  pupils,  of  whom  one  was  a  new- 
comer, and  the  object  of  my  mingled  curiosity  and  admiration.  It 
was  the  one  day  of  the  week  when  morning  visitors  were  admitted, 
and  I  was  there,  in  compliance  with  an  unexpected  request  from 
my  friend,  to  present  him  to  the  agreeable  circle  of  Mrs.  Ilfring- 


184  INDIAN  GIRL  AT  SCHOOL. 


ton.  As  an  hahittce  in  her  family,  this  excellent  lady  had  taken 
occasion  to  introduce  to  me,  a  week  or  two  before,  the  newcomer 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  above — a  departure  from  the  ordinary 
rule  of  the  establishment,  which  I  felt  to  be  a  compliment,  and 
which  gave  me,  I  presumed,  a  tacit  claim  to  mix  myself  up  in 
that  young  lady's  destiny  as  deeply  as  I  should  find  agreeable. 
The  newcomer  was  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief,  and  her  name 
was  Nunu. 

The  wronojs  of  civilization  to  the  noble  aborigines  of  America 
are  a  subject  of  much  poetical  feeling  in  the  United  States,  and 
will  ultimately  become  the  poetry  of  the  nation.  At  present  the 
sentiment  takes  occasionally  a  tangible  shape,  and  the  transmis- 
sion of  the  daughter  of  a  Cherokee  chief  to  New  Haven,  to  be 
educated  at  the  expense  of  the  government,  and  of  several  young 
men  of  the  same  high  birth  to  different  colleges,  will  be  recorded 
among  the  evidences  in  history  that  we  did  not  plough  the  bones 
of  their  fathers  into  our  fields  without  some  feelings  of  compunc- 
tion. Nunu  had  come  to  the  seaboarvl  under  the  charge  of  a  fe- 
male missionary,  whose  pupil  she  had  been  in  one  of  the  native 
schools  of  the  west,  and  was  destined,  though  a  chief's  daughter, 
to  return  as  a  teacher  to  her  tribe  when  she  should  have  mastered 
some  of  the  higher  accomplishments  of  her  sex.  She  was  an  apt 
scholar,  but  her  settled  melancholy,  when  away  from  her  books, 
had  determined  Mrs.  Ilfrington  to  try  the  effect  of  a  little  society 
upon  her,  and  hence  my  privilege  to  ask  for  her  appearance  in  the 
drawing-room. 

As  we  strolled  down  in  the  alternate  shade  and  sunshine  of  the 
road,  T  had  been  a  little  piqued  at  the  want  of  interest,  and  the 
manner-of-course,  with  which  St.  John  had  received  my  animated 
descriptions  of  the  personal  beauty  of  the  Cherokee. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  185 


"  I  have  hunted  with  the  tiibe,"  was  his  only  answer,  "  and 
know  their  features." 

"  But  she  is  not  like  them,"  I  replied,  with  a  tone  of  some  im 
patience  ;  "she  is  the  beau  ideal  of  a  red  skin,  but  it  is  with  the 
softened  features  of  an  Arab  or  an  Egyptian.  She  is  more  wil 
lowy  than  erect,  and  has  no  higher  cheek-bones  than  the  plaster 
Yenus  in  your  chambers.  If  it  were  not  for  the  lambent  fire  in 
her  eye,  you  might  take  her,  in  the  sculptured  pose  of  her  atti- 
tudes, for  an  immortal  bronze  of  Cleopatra.  I  tell  you  she  is 
divine." 

St.  John  called  to  his  dog,  and  we  turned  along  the  green  bank 
above  the  beach,  with  Mrs.  Ilfrington's  house  in  view,  and  so 
opens  a  new  chapter  in  my  story. 

IV. 

In  the  united  pictures  of  Paul  Veronese  and  Raphael,  steep- 
ed as  their  colors  seem  to  have  been  in  the  divinest  age  of 
Venetian  and  Roman  female  beauty,  I  have  scarcely  found  so 
many  lovely  women,  of  so  different  models  and  so  perfect,  as  were 
assembled  during  my  sophomore  year  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  II- 
frington.  They  went  about  in  their  evening  walks,  graceful  and 
angelic,  but,  like  the  virgin  pearls  of  the  sea,  they  poured  the 
light  of  their  loveliness  on  the  vegetating  oysters  about  them,  and 
no  diver  of  fashion  had  yet  taught  them  their  value.  Ignorant 
myself,  in  those  days,  of  the  scale  of  beauty,  their  features  are 
enamelled  in  my  memory,  and  I  have  tried  insensibly  by  that 
standard,  (and  found  wanting),  of  every  court  in  Europe  the  dames 
most  worshipped  and  highest  born.  Queen  of  the  Sicilies,  loveliest 
in  your  own  realm  of  sunshine  and  passion  !  Pale  and  transpa- 
parent  Princess — pearl  of  the  court  of  Florence— than  whom  the 


186  SUDDEN  RECOGNITION. 

creations  on  the  immortal  walls  of  the  Pitti  less  discipline  our  eye 
for  the  shapes  of  heaven  !  Grips  j  of  the  Pactolus !  Jewess  of  the 
rhracian  Gallipolis !  Bright  and  gifted  cynosure  of  the  aris- 
tocracy of  England  ! — ye  are  five  women  1  have  seen  in  as  many 
years'  wandering  over  the  world,  lived  to  gaze  npon,  and  live  to 
remember  and  admire — a  constellation,  I  almost  believe,  that  has 
absorbed  all  the  intensest  light  of  the  beauty  of  a  hemisphere — 
yet,  with  your  pictures  colored  to  life  in  my  memory,  and  the 
pride  of  rank  and  state  thrown  over  most  of  you  like  an  elevating 
charm,  I  go  back  to  the  school  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  and  (smile  if 
you  will !)  they  were  as  lovely,  and  stately,  and  as  worthy  of  the 
worship  of  the  world. 

I  introduced  St.  John  to  the  young  ladies  as  they  came  in. 
Having  never  seen  him,  except  in  the  presence  of  men,  I  was  a 
little  curious  to  know  whether  his  singular  aplomb  would  serve 
him  as  well  with  the  other  sex,  of  which  I  was  aware  he  had  had 
very  slender  experience.  My  attention  was  distracted,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  mentioning  his  name  to  a  lovely  little  Georgian  (with 
eyes  full  of  the  liquid  sunshine  of  the  south),  by  a  sudden  bark  of 
joy  from  the  dog,  who  had  been  left  in  the  hall ;  and,  as  the  door 
opened,  and  the  slight  and  graceful  Indian  girl  entered  the  room, 
the  usually  unsocial  animal  sprang  bounding  in,  lavishing  caresses 
on  her,  and  seemingly  wild  with  the  delight  of  a  recognition. 

In  the  confusion  of  taking  the  dog  from  the  room,  I  had  agaic 
lost  the  moment  of  remarking  St.  John's  manner,  and,  on  the  en- 
trance of  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  Nunu  was  sitting  calmly  by  the  piano, 
and  my  friend  was  talking  in  a  quiet  undertone  with  the  passionate 
Georgian. 

"  I  must  apologize  for  my  dog,"  said  St.  John,  bowing  grace- 
fully to  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  "  he  was  bred  by  Indians,  and 


EARLIER  DAYS.  137 


the  sight  of  a  Cherokee  reminded  him  of  happier  days — as  it  did 
his  master." 

Nunu  turned  her  eyes  quickly  upon  him,  but  immediately  re- 
sumed her  apparent  deep  study  of  the  abstruse  figures  in  the  Kid- 
derminster carpet. 

"  You  are  well  arrived,  young  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Ilfring* 
ton  ;  "  we  press  you  into  our  service  for  a  botanical  ramble.  Mr. 
Slingsby  is  at  leisure,  and  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure.  Shall  I 
say  as  much  for  you,  Mr.  St.  John  ?" 

St.  John  bowed,  and  the  ladies  left  the  room  for  their  bonnets 
— Mrs.  Ilfrington  last.  The  door  was  scarcely  closed  when  Nunu 
reappeared,  and,  checking  herself  with  a  sudden  feeling  at  the  first 
step  over  the  threshold,  stood  gazing  at  St.  John,  evidently  under 
very  powerful  emotion. 

"Nunu!"  ho  said,  smiling  slowly  and  unwillingly,  and  holding 
out  his  hand  with  the  air  of  one  who  forgives  an  ofi"ence. 

She  sprang  upon  his  bosom  with  the  bound  of  a  leveret,  and,  be- 
tween her  fast  kisses,  broke  the  endearing  epithets  of  her  native 
tongue,  in  words  that  I  only  understood  by  their  passionate  and 
thrillin";  accent.     The  lano;uan;e  of  the  heart  is  universal. 

The  fii'iv  scholars  came  in,  one  after  another,  and  we  were  soon 
on  our  way  through  the  green  fields  to  the  flowery  mountain-sido 
of  East  Rock  :  Mrs.  Ilfrin2;ton's  arm  and  conversation  having 
fallen  to  my  share,  and  St.  John  rambling  at  largo  with  the  rest 
of  the  party,  but  more  particularly  beset  by  Miss  Temple,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Isabella,  and  whose  Christian  charity  had  no 
bowels  for  broken  hearts. 

The  most  sociable  individuals  of  the  party  for  a  while  were  Nunu 
and  Lash  ;  the  dog\s  recollections  of  the  past,  seeming,  like  those 
«f  wiser  animals,  more  agreeable  than  the  present.     The  Chero- 


188  RED-SKIN  IN  SOCIETY. 


koe  astonished  Mrs.  Ilfrington  by  an  abandonment  to  joy  and 
frolic  wliicli  she  had  never  displayed  before — sometimes  fairly  out- 
running the  dog  at  full  speed,  and  sometimes  sitting  down  breath- 
less upon  a  green  bank,  while  the  rude  creature  overpowered  her 
v>at]i  his  caresses.  The  scene  gave  origin  to  a  grave  discussion  be- 
tween that  well-instructed  lady  and  myself,  upon  the  singular 
force  of  childish  association — the  extraordinary  intimacy  between 
the  Indian  and  the  trapper's  dog  being  explained  satisfactorily 
(to  her,  at  least)  on  that  attractive  principle.  Had  she  but  seen 
Nunu  spring  into  the  bosom  of  my  friend,  half  an  hour  before,  she 
might  have  added  a  material  corollary  to  her  proposition.  If  the 
dog  and  the  chief's  daughter  were  not  old  friends,  the  chief's 
daughter  and  St.  John  certainly  were. 

As  well  as  I  could  judge  by  the  motions  of  two  people  walking 
before  me,  St.  John  was  advancing  fast  in  the  favor  and  acquaint- 
ance of  the  graceful  Georgian.  Her  southern  indolence  was  pro- 
bably an  apology  in  IMrs.  Ilfrington's  eyes  for  leaning  heavily  on 
her  companion's  arm  ;  but,  in  a  momentary  halt,  the  capricious 
beauty  disembarrassed  herself  of  the  bright  scarf  that  had  floated 
over  her  shoulders,  and  bound  it  playfully  around  his  waist.  This 
was  rather  strong,  on  a  first  acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Ilfrington  was 
of  that  opinion. 

"  Miss  Temple !"  said  she,  advancing  to  whisper  a  reproof  in 
the  beauty's  ear. 

Before  she  had  taken  a  second  step,  Nunu  bounded  over  the 
low  hedge,  followed  by  the  dog,  with  whom  she  had  been  chasing 
a  butterfly,  and,  springing  upon  St.  John  with  eyes  that  flashed 
fire,  she  tore  the  scarf  into  shreds,  and  stood  trembling  and  pale, 
with  her  feet  on  the  silken  fragments. 

^*  IMadam  !"  said  St.  John,  advancing  to  Mrs,  Ilfrington,  after 


EARLIER    DAYS.  igg 


casting  on  the  Cherokee  a  look  of  surprise  and  displeasure,  ^'  I 
should  have  told  you  before  that  your  pupil  and  myself  are  not 
new  acquaintances.  Her  father  is  my  friend.  I  have  hunted 
with  the  tribe,  and  have  hitherto  looked  upon  Nunu  as  a  child. 
You  will  believe  me,  I  trust,  when  I  say  her  conduct  surprises 
me,  and  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  any  influence  I  may  have  over 
her  will  be  in  accordance  with  your  own  wishes  exclusively. 

His  tone  was  cold,  and  Nunu  listened  with  fixed  lips  and  frown- 
ing ej^es. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  since  her  arrival  .^"  asked  Mrs.  Ilfrington. 
"  My  dog  brought  me  yesterday  the  first  intelligence  that  she 
was  here :  he  returned  from  his  mornino-  ramble  with  a  strino-  of 
wampum  about  his  neck,  which  had  the  mark  of  the  tribe.  He 
was  her  gift,"  he  added,  patting  the  head  of  the  dog,  and  looking 
with  a  softened  expression  at  Nunu,  who  dropped  her  head  upon 
her  bosom,  and  walked  on  in  tears. 

V. 

The  chain  of  the  Green  Mountains,  after  a  gallop  of  some  five 
hundred  miles,  from  Canada  to  Connecticut,  suddenly  pulls  up  on 
the  shore  of  Lons^-Island  Sound,  and  stands  rearino;  with  a  bristlinjr 
mane  of  pine-trees,  three  hundred  feet  in  air,  as  if  checked  in  mid 
career  by  the  sea.  Standing  on  the  brink  of  this  bold  precipice, 
you  have  the  bald  face  of  the  rock  in  a  sheer  perpendicular  below 
you  ;  and,  spreading  away  from  the  broken  masses  at  its  feet,  lies 
an  emerald  meadow,  inlaid  with  a  crystal  and  rambling  river, 
across  which,  at  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  two,  rise  the  spires  of  the 
university,  from  what,  else,  were  a  thick-serried  wilderness  of  elms. 
Back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice  extends  a  wild  forest  of  hem- 
lock and  fir,  ploughed  on  its  northren  side  by  a  mountain-torrent^ 


190  EFFECT  OF  INDIAx\  JEALOUSY. 


wliose  bed  of  marl,  dry  and  overliung  witli  trees  in  the  summer, 
serves  as  a  path  and  a  guide  from  the  plain  to  the  summit.  It 
were  a  toilsome  ascent  but  for  that  smooth  and  hard  pavement, 
and  the  impervious  and  green  thatch  of  pine  tassels  overhung. 

Antiquity  in  America  extends  no  farther  back  than  the  days  of 
Cromwell,  and  East  Rock  is  traditionary  ground  with  us — for 
there  harbored  the  regicides  Whalley  and  Goffe,  and  many  a 
breath-hushing  tale  is  told  of  them  over  the  smouldering  log-fires 
of  Connecticut.  Not  to  rob  the  historian,  I  pass  on  to  say,  that 
this  cavernous  path  to  the  mountain-top  was  the  resort,  in  the 
holyday  sujnmer  afternoons,  of  most  of  the  poetical  and  otherwise 
well-disposed  gentlemen  sophomores ;  and,  on  the  day  of  which  I 
speak,  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington  and  her  seven-and-twenty  lovely  scholars. 
The  kind  mistress  ascended  with  the  assistance  of  my  arm,  and 
St.  John  drew  stoutly  between  Miss  Temple  and  a  fat  young  lady 
with  an  incipient  asthma.  Nunu  had  not  been  seen  since  the  first 
cluster  of  hanging  flowers  had  hidden  her  from  our  sight,  as 
she  bounded  upward. 

The  hour  or  two  of  slanting  sunshine,  pouring  in  upon  the  sum- 
mit of  the  precipice  from  the  west,  had  been  sufficient  to  induce  a 
fine  and  silken  moss  to  show  its  fibres  and  small  blossoms  above 
the  carpet  of  pine-tassels ;  and,  emerging  from  the  brown  shadow 
of  the  wood,  you  stood  on  a  verdant  platform,  the  foliage  of  sigh- 
ing trees  overhead,  a  fairies'  velvet  beneath  you,  and  a  view  be- 
low that  you  may  as  well  (if  you  would  not  die  in  your  ignorance) 
make  a  voyage  or  journey  to  see. 

We  found  Nunu  lying  thoughtfully  near  the  brink  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  gazing  ofi"  over  the  waters  of  the  Sound,  as  if  she  watch- 
ed the  coming  or  going  of  a  friend  under  the  white  sails  that  spot- 
ted its  bosom.     We  recovered  our  breatli  in  silence,  I  alone, 


EARLIER  BAYS.  I9I 

perhaps,  of  that  considerable  company,  gazing  with  admiration  at 
the  lithe  and  unconscious  figure  of  grace  lying  in  the  attitude  of 
the  Grecian  Hermaphrodite  on  the  brow  of  the  rock  before  us. 
Her  eyes  were  moist  and  motionless  with  abstraction,  her  lips  just 
perceptibly  curved  in  an  expression  of  mingled  pride  and  sorrow, 
her  small  hand  buried  and  clinched  in  the  moss,  and  her  left  foot 
and  ankle,  models  of  spirited  symmetry,  escaping  carelessly  from 
her  dress,  the  high  instep  strained  back  as  if  recovering  from  a 
leap,  with  the  tense  control  of  emotion. 

The  game  of  the  coquettish  Georgian  was  well  played.  With 
a  true  woman's  pique,  she  had  redoubled  her  attentions  to  my 
friend  from  the  moment  that  slio  found  it  gave  pain  to  another  of 
her  sex  ;  and  St.  John,  like  most  men,  seemed  not  unwilling  to 
see  a  new  altar  kindled  to  his  vanity,  though  a  heart  he  had  al- 
ready won  was  stifling  with  the  incense.  Miss  Temple  was  very 
lovely.  Her  skin,  of  that  teint  of  opaque  and  patrician  white 
which  is  found  oftenest  in  Asian  latitudes,  was  just  perceptibly 
warmed  toward  the  centre  of  the  cheek  with  a  glow  like  sunshine 
through  the  thick  white  petal  of  a  magnolia  ;  her  eyes  were  hazel, 
with  those  inky  lashes  which  enhance  the  expression  a  thousand- 
fold, either  of  passion  or  melancholy  ;  her  teeth  were  like  strips 
from  the  lily's  heart ;  and  she  was  clever,  captivating,  and  grace- 
ful, and  a  thorough  coquette.  St.  John  was  mysterious,  romantic- 
looking,  superior,  and,  just  now,  the  only  victim  in  the  way.  He 
admired,  as  all  men  do,  those  qualities  which,  to  her  own  sex,  ren- 
dered the  fair  Isabella  unamiable ;  and  yielded  himself,  as  all 
men  will,  a  satisfied  prey  to  enchantments  of  which  he  knew  the 
springs  were  the  pique  and  vanity  of  the  enchantress.  How  sin- 
gular it  is  that  the  highest  and  best  qualities  of  the  female  heart 
are  those  with  which  men  are  most  rarely  captivated ! 


192        QUEER  PLACE  FOR  A  KEEPSAKE. 


A  rib  of  the  mountain  formed  a  natural  seat  a  little  Lack  from 
the  pitch  of  the  precipicej  and  here  sat  Miss  Temple,  triumphant 
in  drawing  all  eyes  upon  herself  and  her  tamed  lion  ;  her  lap  full  of 
flowers,  which  he  had  found  time  to  gather  on  the  way,  and  her  white 
hands  employed  in  arranging  a  houqnet,  of  which  the  destiny  was 
yet  a  secret.  Next  to  their  own  loves,  ladies  like  nothing  on 
earth  like  mending  or  marring  the  loves  of  others  ;  and,  while  the 
violets  and  already  drooping  wild  flowers  were  coquettishly  chosen 
or  rejected  by  those  slender  fingers,  the  sun  might  have  swung 
back  to  the  east  like  a  pendulum,  and  those  seven-and-twenty 
misses  would  have  watched  their  lovely  schoolfellow  the  same. 
Nunu  tui'ned  her  head  slowly  around,  at  last,  and  silently  looked 
on.  St.  John  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Greorgian,  glancing  from  the 
flowers  to  her  face,  and  from  her  face  to  the  flowers,  with  an  ad- 
miration not  at  all  equivocal.  Mrs.  Ilfrington  sat  apart,  absorbed 
in  finishing  a  sketch  of  New  Haven  ;  and  I,  interested  painfully  in 
watching  the  emotions  of  the  Cherokee,  sat  with  my  back  to  the 
trunk  of  a  hemlock — the  only  spectator  who  comprehended  the 
whole  extent  of  the  drama. 

A  wild  rose  was  set  in  the  heart  of  the  bouquet  at  last,  a  spear 
of  riband-grass  added  to  give  it  grace  and  point,  and  nothing  was 
wanting  but  a  string.  Reticules  were  searched,  pockets  turned 
inside  out,  and  never  a  bit  of  riband  to  be  found.  The  beauty 
was  in  despair. 

"  Stay,"  said  St.  John,  springing  to  his  feet.     "  Lash  !   Lash  !" 

The  dog  came  coursing  in  from  the  wood,  and  crouched  to  his 
master's  hand. 

"  Will  a  string  of  wampum  do .?"  he  asked,  feeling  under  the 
long  hair  on  the  dog's  neck,  and  untying  a  fine  and  variegate(? 
thread  of  many-colored  beads,  worked  exquisitely. 


EARLIEK  DAYS.  193 


The  dog  growled,  and  Nunii  sprang  into  the  middle  of  the  circle 
with  the  fling  of  an  adder,  and,  seizing  the  wampum  as  he  handed 
it  to  her  rival,  called  the  dog,  and  fastened  it  once  more  around 
his  neck. 

The  ladies  rose  in  alarm  ;  the  belle  turned  pale,  and  clung  to 
St.  John's  arm  ;  the  dog,  with  his  hair  bristling  upon  his  back, 
stood  close  to  her  feet  in  an  attitude  of  defiance  ;  and  the  superb 
Indian,  the  peculiar  genius  of  her  beauty  developed  by  her  indig- 
nation, her  nostrils  expanded,  and  her  eyes  almost  showering  fire 
in  their  flashes,  stood  before  them  like  a  young  Pythoness,  ready 
to  strike  them  dead  with  a  regard. 

St.  John  recovered  from  his  astonishment,  after  a  moment,  and, 
leaving  the  arm  of  Miss  Temple,  advanced  a  step,  and  called  to 
his  dog. 

The  Cherokee  patted  the  animal  on  his  back,  and  spoke  to  him 
in  her  own  language  ;  and,  as  St.  John  still  advanced,  Nunu  drew 
herself  to  her  fullest  height,  placed  herself  before  the  dog,  who 
slunk  growling  from  his  master,  and  said  to  him,  as  she  folded  her 
arms,  "  The  wampum  is  mine." 

St.  John  colored  to  the  temples  with  shame. 

"  Lash  !"  he  cried,  stamping  with  his  feet,  and  endeavoring  to 
fright  him  from  his  protectress. 

The  dog  howled  and  crept  away,  half  crouching  with  fear, 
toward  the  precipice  ;  and  St.  John,  shooting  suddenly  past  Xunu, 
seized  him  on  the  brink,  and  held  him  down  by  the  throat. 

The  next  instant,  a  scream  of  horror  from  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  fol- 
lowed by  a  terrific  echo  from  every  female  present,  started  the 
rude  Kentuckian  to  his  feet. 

Clear  over  the  abyss,  hanging  with  one  hand  by  an  ashen  sap- 
ling, the  point  of  her  tiny  foot  just  j/oising  on  a  projecting  ledge 
y 


194  SINGULAR  COMPCL^^IOX. 


of  rock,  swung  the  desperate  Cherokee,  sustaining  herself  witli 
perfect  ease,  but  with  all  the  determination  of  her  iron  race  col- 
lected in  calm  concentration  on  her  lips. 

*'  Restore  the  wampum  to  his  neck,"  she  cried,  with  a  voice 
that  thrilled  the  very  marrow  with  its  subdued  fierceness,  "  or  my 
blood  rest  on  your  soul !" 

St.  John  flung  it  toward  the  dog,  and  clasped  his  hands  in  silent 
horror. 

The  Cherokee  bore  down  the  sapling  till  its  slender  stem  crack- 
ed with  the  tension,  and,  rising  lightly  with  the  rebound,  alit  like  a 
feather  upon  the  rock.  The  subdued  student  sprang  to  her  side  ; 
but  with  scorn  on  her  lip,  and  the  flush  of  exertion  already  vanish- 
ed from  her  cheek,  she  called  to  the  dog,  and  with  rapid  strides 
took  her  wa}^  alone  down  the  mountain. 

VI. 

Five  years  had  elapsed.  I  had  put  to  sea  from  the  sheltered 
river  of  boj^hood — had  encountered  the  storms  of  a  first  entrance 
into  life — had  trimmed  my  boat,  shortened  sail,  and,  with  a  sharp 
eye  to  windward,  was  laying  fairly  on  my  course.  Among  others 
from  whom  I  had  parted  company  was  Paul  St.  John,  who  had 
shaken  hands  with  me  at  the  university  gate,  leaving  me,  after 
four  years'  intimacy,  as  much  in  doubt  as  to  his  real  character 
and  history  as  the  fii-st  day  we  met.  I  had  never  heard  him 
speak  of  either  father  or  mother,  nor  had  he,  to  my  knowledge, 
received  a  letter,  from  the  day  of  his  matriculation.  He  passed 
his  vacations  at  the  university  ;  he  had  studied  well,  yet  refused 
one  of  the  highest  college  honors  ofiered  him  with  his  degree  ;  he 
had  shown  many  good  qualities,  yet  some  unaccountable  faults  ; 
and,  all  in  all,  was  an  enigma  to  myself  and  the  class.     I  know 


EARLIER    DAYS.  195 


liim  clever,  accomplished,  and  conscious  of  superiority ;  and  my 
knowledge  went  no  farther.     The  coach  was  at  the  gate,  and  I 
was  there  to  see  him  off ;  and,  after  four  years'  constant  associa- 
tion, I  had  not  an  idea  where  he  was  going,  or  to  what  he  was  des 
tined.     The  driver  blew  his  horn. 

"  God  bless  you,  Slingsby  !" 

"  God  bless  you,  St.  John  !" 

And  so  we  parted. 

It  was  five  years  from  this  time,  I  say,  and,  in  the  bitter  strug 
gles  of  first  manhood,  I  had  almost  forgotten  there  was  such  a 
bcmg  in  the  world.  Late  in  the  month  of  October,  in  1829,  I 
was  on  my  way  westward,  giving  myself  a  vacation  from  the  law 
I  embarked,  on  a  clear  and  delicious  day,  in  the  small  steamier 
which  plies  up  and  down  the  Cayuga  Lake,  looking  forward  to  a 
calm  feast  of  scenery,  and  caring  little  who  were  to  be  my  fellow- 
passengers.  As  wc  got  out  of  the  little  harbor  of  Cayuga,  I 
walked  astern  for  the  first  time,  and  saw  the  not  very  unusual 
sight  of  a  group  of  Indians  standing  motionless  by  the  wheel. 
They  were  chiefs,  returning  from  a  diplomatic  visit  to  Wash- 
ington. 

I  sat  down  by  the  companion-ladder,  and  opened  soul  and  eye 
to  the  glorious  scenery  we  were  gliding  through.  The  first  severe 
frost  had  come,  and  the  miraculous  change  had  passed  upon  the 
leaves  which  is  known  only  in  America.  The  blood-red  sugar 
maple,  with  a  leaf  brighter  and  more  delicate  than  a  Circassian 
lip,  stood  here  and  there  in  the  forest  like  the  Sultan's  standard  in 
a  host — the  solitary  and  far- seen  aristocrat  of  the  wilderness  ;  the 
birch,  with  its  spirit-like  and  amber  leaves,  ghosts  of  the  departed 
summer,  turned  out  along  the  edges  of  the  woods  like  a  lining  of 
the  palest  gold ;    the  broad  sycamore  and   the  fan-like  catalpa 


196  WHAT  AUTUMN  IS  LIKE. 


flaunted  their  saffron  foliage  in  the  sun,  spotted  with  gold  like  the 
wings  of  a  lady -bird  ;  the  kingly  oak,  with  its  summit  shaken  bare, 
still  hid  its  majestic  trunk  in  a  drapery  of  sumptuous  d3^es,  like  a 
stricken  monarch,  gathering  his  robes  of  state  about  him  to  die 
royally  in  his  purple ;  the  tall  poplar,  with  its  minaret  of  silver 
leaves,  stood  blanched  like  a  coward  in  the  dying  forest,  burthen- 
ing  every  breeze  with  its  complainings  ;  the  hickory  paled  through 
its  enduring  green  ;  the  bright  berries  of  the  mountain-ash  flushed 
with  a  more  sanguine  glory  in  the  unobstructed  sun ;  the  gaudy 
tulip-tree,  the  Sybarite  of  vegetation,  stripped  of  its  golden  cups, 
still  drank  the  intoxicating  light  of  noonday,  in  leaves  than  which 
the  lip  of  an  Indian  shell  was  never  more  delicately  tinted  ;  the 
still  deeper-dyed  vines  of  the  lavish  wilderness,  perishing  with  the 
noble  things  whose  summer  they  had  shared,  outshone  them  in 
their  decline,  as  won  an  in  her  death  is  heavenlier  tlian  the  being 
on  whom  in  life  she  leaned  ;  and,  alone  and  un sympathizing  in  this 
universal  decay,  outlaws  from  Nature,  stood  the  fir  and  the  hem- 
lock, their  frowning  and  sombre  heads  darker  and  less  lovely  than 
ever,  in  contrast  with  the  death-struck  glory  of  their  companions. 

The  dull  colors  of  English  autumnal  foliage,  give  you  no  con- 
ception of  this  marvellous  phenomenon.  The  change  there  is 
gradual ;  in  America  it  is  the  work  of  a  night — of  a  single  frost ! 

Oh,  to  have  seen  the  sun  set  on  hills  bright  in  the  still  green 
and  lingering  summer,  and  to  wake  in  the  morning  to  a  spectacle 
like  this  ! 

It  is  as  if  a  myriad  of  rainbows  were  laced  through  the  tree- 
tops  ;  as  if  the  sunsets  of  a  summer — gold,  purple,  and  crimson 
■ — had  been  fused  in  the  alembic  of  the  west,  and  poured  back  in 
a  new  deluo;e  of  lio;ht  and  color  over  the  wilderness.     It  is  as  if 

o  o 

every  leaf,  in  those  countless  trees,  had  been  painted  to  oiitflush 


EARLIER  DAYS.  197 


the  tulip  ;  as  if,  by  some  electric  miracle,  the  dyes  of  the  earth's 
heart  had  struck  upward,  and  her  cry8tals  and  ores,  her  sap- 
phires, hyacinths,  and  rubies,  had  let  forth  their  imprisoned  colors, 
to  mount  through  the  roots  of  the  forest,  and,  like  the  angels  that 
in  olden  time  entered  the  body  of  the  dying,  re-animatc  the  per- 
ishing leaves,  and  revel  an  hour  in  their  bravery, 

I  was  sitting  by  the  companion-ladder,  thinking  to  what  on 
earth  these  masses  of  foliage  could  be  resembled,  when  a  dog 
sprang  upon  my  knees,  and,  the  moment  after,  a  hand  was  laid 
on  my  shoulder. 

"  St.  John  ?     Impossible  !" 

"  Bodily  !"  answered  my  quondam  classmate. 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  The  soigne  man  of  fashion 
I  had  once  known,  was  enveloped  in  a  kind  of  hunter's  frock, 
loose  and  large,  and  girded  to  his  waist  by  a  belt ;  his  hat  was 
exchanged  for  a  cap  of  rich  otter  skin  ;  his  pantaloons  spread 
with  a  slovenly  carelessness  over  his  feet ;  and,  altogether,  there 
was  that  in  his  air  which  told  me,  at  a  glance,  that  he  had  re- 
nounced the  world.  Lash  had  recovered  his  lameness,  and,  after 
wagging  out  his  joy,  he  crouched  between  my  feet,  and  lay  look- 
ing into  my  face,  as  if  he  were  brooding  over  the  more  idle  days 
in  which  we  had  been  acquainted. 

"  And  where  are  you  bound  ?"  I  asked,  having  answered  the 
same  question  for  myself. 

"  Westward,  with  the  chiefs !" 

"  For  how  long .'" 

"  For  the  remainder  of  my  life." 

I  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  You  would  wonder  less,"  said  he,  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
"  if  you  knew  more  of  me.     And,  by-the-way,"  he  added,  with 


198  SKETCH  OF  AN  ADVKMIJPKR. 


a  smile,  "  I  think  I  never  told  you  tlic  first  half  of  the  story — 
my  life  up  to  the  time  I  met  you." 

"  It  was  not  for  want  of  a  catcchist  "  I  answered,  settling  my- 
self in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"  No  ;  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  gratify  your  curiosity.  Eut, 
from  the  little  intercourse  I  had  with  the  world,  I  had  adopted 
some  precocious  principles  ;  and  one  was,  that  a  man's  inilucncc, 
over  others,  was  vulgarized  and  diminished  by  a  knowledge  of  his 
history." 

I  smiled  ;  and,  as  the  boat  sped  on  her  way  over  the  calm 
waters  of  the  Cayuga,  St.  John  went  on  leisurely  with  a  story 
which  is  scarce  remarkable  enough  for  a  repetition.  He  believed 
himself  the  natural  son  of  a  \Yestern  hunter  ;  but  only  knew 
that  lie  had  passed  his  early  youth  on  the  borders  of  civilization, 
between  whites  and  Indians,  and  that  he  had  been  more  particu- 
larly indebted  for  protection  to  the  father  of  Nunu.  Mingled 
ambition  and  curiosity  had  led  him  Eastward,  while  still  a  lad ; 
and  a  year  or  two  of  a  most  vagabond  life  in  the  different  cities, 
had  taught  him  the  caution  and  bitterness  for  which  he  was  so 
remarkable.  A  fortunate  experiment  in  lotteries  supplied  him 
with  the  means  of  education ;  and,  with  singular  application  in  a 
youth  of  such  wandering  habits,  he  had  applied  himself  to  study 
under  a  private  master,  fitted  himself  for  the  university  in  half 
the  usual  time,  and  cultivated,  in  addition,  the  literary  taste 
which  I  have  remarked  upon. 

"  This,"  he  said,  smiling  at  my  look  of  astonishment,  '*  brings 
me  up  to  the  time  when  we  met.  I  came  to  college  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  with  a  few  hundred  dollars  in  my  pocket — some 
pregnant  experience  of  the  rough  side  of  the  world — great  con- 
fidence in  myself,  and   distrust  of  others,  and,  I  believe,  a  kind 


EARLIER  DAYS.  199 


of  instinct  of  goc  I  manners,  which  made  me  ambitious  of  shining 
iu  society.  You  were  a  witness  to  my  dehut.  Miss  Temple  was 
the  first  highly-educated  woman  I  had  ever  known,  and  you  saw 
her  effect  on  me." 

"  And — since  we  parted  V 

"  Oh,  since  we  parted,  my  life  has  been  vulgar  enough.  I  have 
ransacked  civilized  life  to  the  bottom,  and  found  it  a  heap  of  un- 
redeemed falsehoods.  I  do  not  say  it  from  common  disappoint- 
ment ;  for  I  may  say  I  succeeded  in  everything  I  undertook — " 

"  Except  Miss  Temple,"  I  said,  interrupting,  at  the  hazard  of 
wounding  him. 

"  No  ;  she  was  a  coquette,  and  I  pursued  her  till  I  had  my 
ttirn.  You  see  me  in  my  new  character  now.  But  a  month  ago, 
I  was  the  Apollo  of  Saratoga,  playing  my  own  game  with  Miss 
Temple.  I  left  her  for  a  woman  worth  ten  thousand  of  her ; 
and  here  she  is." 

As  Nunu  came  up  the  companion-way  from  the  cabin,  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  breathing  creature  so  exquisitely  lovely.  With 
the  exception  of  a  pair  of  brilliant  moccasins  on  her  feet,  she 
was  dressed  in  the  usual  manner,  but  with  the  most  absolute  sim- 
plicity. She  had  changed,  in  those  five  years,  from  the  child  to 
the  woman,  and,  with  a  round,  well-developed  figure,  additional 
height,  and  manners  at  once  gracious  and  dignified,  she  walked 
and  looked  the  chieftain's  daughter.  St.  John  took  her  hand, 
and  gazed  on  her  with  moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  That  I  could  ever  have  put  a  creature  like  this,"  he  said, 
*  into  comparison  with  the  dolls  of  civilization  !" 

We  parted  at  Buffalo  ;  St.  John,  with  his  wife  and  the  chiefs, 
to  pursue  their  way  westward,  by  Lake  Erie  ;  and  I,  to  go  moral- 
izmg  on  my  way  to  Niagara. 


F.  SMITH. 

"  Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet, 
And  pressed  his  soul  into  a  human  shape 
By  accident  or  malice.'' — Coleridge. 

"  I'll  have  you  chronicled,  and  clironicled,  and  cut-and-chronicled,  and  s&ng  in  all- 
to-be-praisea  sonnets,  and  graved  in  new  brave  ballads,  that  all  tongues  shall  troula 
you." — Philaster. 

If  you  can  imagine  a  buried  Titian,  lying  along  tlie  length  of 
a  continent,  with  one  arm  stretched  out  into  the  midst  of  the  sea 
— the  place  to  which  I  would  transport  you,  reader  mine  ! — would 
lie,  as  it  were,  in  the  palm  of  the  giant's  hands.  The  small  pro- 
montory to  which  I  refer,  which  becomes  an  island  in  certain 
states  of  the  tide,  is  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  long  capes  of  Mas- 
pachusets,  and  is  still  called  by  its  Indian  name,  Nahant.  Not 
to  make  you  uncomfortable,  I  beg  to  introduce  you,  at  once,  to  a 
pretentious  hotel,  "  squat  like  a  toad,"  upon  the  unsheltered  and 
highest  point  of  this  citadel  in  mid  sea,  and  a  very  great  resort 
for  the  metropolitan  New-Englanders.  Nahant  is,  perhaps,  liber- 
ally measured — a  square  half  mile  ;  and  it  is  distant  from  what 
may  fairly  be  called  mainland,  perhaps  a  league. 

Koad  to  Nahant  there  is  nono.  The  oi  polloi  go  there  by  steam  *, 
but  when  the  tide  is  down,  you  may  diive  there  with  a  thousand 
chariots,  over  the  bottom  of  the  sCa.     As  I  .suppose  there  is  not 


EARLIER  DAYS.  201 

such  another  place  in  the  known  world,  my  tale  will  wait  while  I 
desci  ibe  it  more  fully.  If  the  Bible  had  been  a  fiction  (not  to 
speak  profanely),  I  should  have  thought  the  idea  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  Pharaoh  and  his  host,  had  its  origin  in  some  such  wonder 
of  nature. 

Nahant  is  so  far  out  into  the  ocean,  that  what  is  called  the 
"  ground  swell,"  the  majestic  heave  of  its  great  bosom  going  on 
for  ever  like  respiration  fthough  its  face  may  be  like  a  mirror 
beneath  the  sun,  and  a  wind  may  not  have  crisped  its  surface  for 
days  and  weeks),  is  as  broad  and  powerful  within  a  rood  of  the 
shore,  as  it  is  a  thousand  miles  at  sea. 

The  promontory,  itself,  is  never  wholly  left  by  the  ebb ;  but, 
from  its  western  extremity,  there  runs  a  narrow  ridge,  scarce 
broad  enough  for  a  horse-path,  impassible  for  the  rocks  and  sea- 
weed of  which  it  is  matted,  and  extending  at  just  high-water 
mark  from  Nahant  to  the  mainland.  Seaward  from  this  ridge, 
which  is  the  only  connection  of  the  promontory  with  the  Continent, 
descends  an  expanse  of  sand,  left  bare  six  hours  out  of  the  twelve 
by  the  retreating  sea,  as  smooth  and  hard  as  marble,  and  as  broad, 
and  apparently  as  level,  as  the  plain  of  the  Hermus.  For  three 
miles  it  stretches  away  without  shell  or  stone,  a  surface  of  white, 
fine-grained  sand,  beaten  so  hard  by  the  eternal  hammer  of  the 
surf  that  the  hoof  of  a  horse  scarce  marks  it,  and  the  heaviest 
wheel  leaves  it  as  printless  as  a  floor  of  granite.  This  will  be 
easily  understood,  when  you  remember  the  tremendous  rise  and 
fall  of  the  ocean  swell,  from  the  very  bosom  of  which,  in  all  its 
breadth  and  strength,  roll  in  the  waves  of  the  flowing  tide,  break- 
ing down  on  the  beach,  every  one,  with  the  thunder  of  a  host  pre- 
cipitated from  the  ])attlGments  of  a  castle.  Nothing  could  be  more 
solemn   and  anthem-like,  than  the  succession  of  these  plunging 


202  WONDERS  OF  NAHANT. 


surges.  And  when  the  "  tenth  wavb"  gathers,  far  out  at  sea, 
and  rolls  onward  to  the  shore — first  with  a  glassy  and  heaving 
swell,  as  if  some  mighty  monster  were  lurching  inland  beneath 
the  water,  and  then,  bursting  up  into  foam,  with  a  front  like  an 
endless  and  sparry  crystal  wall,  advances  and  overwhelms  every- 
thing in  its  progress,  till  it  breaks  with  a  centupled  thunder  on 
the  beach — ^it  has  seemed  to  me,  standing  there,  as  if  thus  might 
have  beaten  the  first  surge  on  the  shore  after  the  fiat  which 
"  divided  sea  and  land."  I  am  no  Cameronian,  but  the  sea  (my- 
self on  shore)  always  drives  me  to  Scripture  for  an  illustration 
of  my  feelings. 

The  promontory  of  Nahant  must  be  based  on  the  earth's  axle, 
else  I  cannot  imagine  how  it  should  have  lasted  so  long.  In  the 
mildest  weather,  the  ground-swell  of  the  sea  gives  it  a  fillip  at 
every  heave,  that  would  lay  the  "  castled  crag  of  Brachenfels" 
as  low  as  Memphis.  The  wine  trembles  in  your  beaker  of  claret, 
as  you  sit  after  dinner  at  the  hotel ;  and,  if  you  look  out  at  the 
eastern  balcony,  (for  it  is  a  wooden  pagoda,  with  balconies,  ver- 
andahs, and  colonnades  ad  libitum j)  you  will  see  the  grass  breath- 
less in  the  sunshine  upon  the  lawn,  and  the  ocean  as  polished  and 
calm  as  MiladVs  brow  beyond,  and  yet  the  spray  and  foam  dash- 
ing fifty  feet  into  the  air  between,  and  enveloping  the  "  Devil's 
Pulpit"  (a  tall  rock,  split  ofi"  from  the  promontory's  front)  in  a 
perpetual  kaleidoscope  of  mist  and  rainbows.  Take  the  trouble 
to  transport  yourself  there  !  I  will  do  the  remaining  honors  on 
the  spot.  A  cavern,  as  cool  (not  as  silent)  as  those  of  Tropho- 
nius,  lies  just  under  the  brow  of  yonder  precipice,  and  the  waiter 
shall  come  after  us  with  our  wine.  You  have  dined  with  the 
Borromeo,  in  the  grotto  of  Isola  Bella,  I  doubt  not,  and  know 
the  perfection  of  art — I  will  show  you  that  oi nature.     (I  should 


EARLIER  DAYS.  203 


like  to  transport  you,  for  a  similar  contrast,  from  Terni  to 
Niagara,  or  from  San  Giovanni  Laterano  to  an  aisle  in  a  forest  of 
Michigan ;  but  the  Dcedalian  mysterj,  alas  !  is  unsolved.  We 
"fly  not  yet." 

Here  we  are,  then,  in  the  "  Swallow's  Cave."  The  floor  de- 
scends by  a  gentle  declivity  to  the  sea,  and,  from  the  long,  dark 
cleft,  stretching  outward,  you  look  forth  upon  the  broad  Atlantic 
— the  shore  of  Ireland,  the  first  terra  Jirma  in  the  path  of  your 
eye.  Here  is  a  dark  pool,  left  by  the  retreating  tide  for  a  refri- 
gerator ;  and,  with  the  champagne  in  the  midst,  we  will  recline 
about  it  like  the  soft  Asiatics,  of  whom  we  learned  pleasure  in  the 
East,  and  drink  to  the  small-featured  and  purple-lipped  "  Mig- 
nons"  of  Syria — those  flue-limbed  and  fiery  slaves,  adorable  as 
Peris,  and,  by  turns,  languishing  and  stormy,  whom  you  buy  for 
a  pinch  of  piastres  (say,  £5  5s.)  in  sunny  Damascus.  Your 
drowsy  Circassian,  faint  and  dreamy,  or  you  crockery  Georgian — 
fit  dolls  for  the  sensual  Turk — is,  to  him  who  would  buy  soul, 
dear  at  a  penny  the  hecatomb. 

We  recline,  as  it  were,  in  an  ebon  pyramid,  with  a  hundred 
feet  of  floor  and  sixty  of  wall,  and  the  fourth  side  open  to  the 
sky.  The  light  comes  in,  mellow  and  dim,  and  the  sharp  edges 
of  the  rocky  portal  seem  let  into  the  pearly  arch  of  heaven.  The 
tide  is  at  half-ebb,  and  the  advancing  and  retreating  waves, 
which,  at  flrst,  just  lifted  the  fringe  of  crimson  dulse  at  the  lip 
of  the  cavern,  now  dash  their  spray-pearls  on  the  rock  below,  the 
"  tenth"  surge  alone  rallying,  as  if  in  scorn  of  its  retreating 
fellows,  and,  lilie  the  chieftain  of  Culloden  IMoor,  rushing  back 
singly  to  the  contest.  And  now  that  the  waters  reach  the  en- 
trance no  more,  come  forward,  and  look  on  the  sea  !  The 
swell  lifts  !     Would  you  not  think  the  bases  of  the  earth  rising 


204  TALK  BY  THE  SEA. 


beneath  it  ?  It  falls  ?  Would  you  not  tliink  the  fodndation  of 
the  deep  had  given  way  ?  A  plain,  broad  enough  for  the  navies 
of  the  world  to  ride  at  large,  heaves  up  evenly  and  steadily,  as  if 
it  would  lie  against  the  sky,  rests  a  moment  spell- Dound  in  its 
place,  and  falls  again  as  far — the  respiration  of  a  sleeping  child 
not  more  regular  and  full  of  slumber.  It  is  only  on  the  shore 
that  it  chafes.  Blessed  emblem  !  it  is  at  peace  with  itself !  The 
rocks  war  with  a  nature  so  unlike  their  own,  and  the  hoarse  din, 
of  their  border  onsets,  resounds  through  the  caverns  they  have 
rent  open  ;  but  beyond,  in  the  calm  bosom  of  the  ocean,  what 
heavenly  dignity  !  what  godlike  unconsciousness  of  alarm  !  I 
did  not  think  we  should  stumble  on  such  a  moral  in  the  cave  ! 

By  the  deeper  base  of  its  hoarse  organ,  the  sea  is  now  playing 
upon  its  lowest  stops,  and  the  tide  is  down.  Hear  !  how  it 
rushes  in  beneath  the  rocks,  broken  and  stilled  in  its  tortuous 
way,  till  it  ends  with  a  washing  and  dull  hiss  among  the  sea-weed, 
and,  like  a  myriad  of  small  tinkling  bells,  the  dripping  from  the 
crags  is  audible.     There  is  fine  music  in  the  sea  ! 

And  now  the  beach  is  bare.  The  cave  begins  to  cool  and 
darken,  and  the  first  gold  tint  of  sunset  is  stealing  into  the  sky, 
and  the  sea  looks  of  a  changing  opal,  green,  pui-ple,  and  white, 
as  if  its  floor  were  paved  with  pearl,  and  the  changing  light 
struck  up  through  the  waters.  And  there  heaves  a  ship  into  the 
horizon,  like  a  white-winged  bird,  lying  with  dark  breast  on  the 
waves,  abandoned  of  the  sea-breeze  within  sight  of  port,  and  re- 
pelled even  by  the  spicy  breath  that  comes  with  a  welcome  off 
the  shore.  She  conxes  from  "  merry  England."  She  is  freighted 
with  more  than  merchandise.  The  home-sick  exile  will  gaze  oh 
her  snowy  sail  as  she  sets  in  with  the  morning  breeze,  and  bless 
it ;  for  the  wind  that  first  filled  it  on  its  way,  swept  through  the 


EARLIER  DAYS.  205 

green  vulley  of  his  liome  !  What  links  of  human  affection  bringa 
she  over  the  sea  ?  How  much  comes  in  her  that  is  not  in  her 
*'  bill  of  lading,"  yet  worth,  to  the  heart  that  is  waiting  for  it,  a 
thousand  times  the  purchase  of  her  whole  venture  ? 

Mais  mcntons  nous  !  I  hear  the  small  hoofs  of  Thalaba ;  my 
stanhope  waits  ;  we  will  leave  this  half  bottle  of  champagne,  that 
"  remainder  biscuit,"  and  the  echoes  of  our  philosophy,  to  the 
Naiads  who  have  lent  us  their  drawing-room.  Undine,  or  Egeria  ! 
Lurly,  or  Arethusa !  whatever  thou  art  called,  nymph  of  this 
shadowy  cave  !  adieu  ! 

Slowly,  Thalaba !  Tread  gingerly  down  this  rocky  descent ! 
So  !  Here  we  are,  on  the  floor  of  the  vasty  deep  !  What  a  glori- 
ous race-course  !  The  polished  and  printless  sand  spreads  away 
before  you,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the  surf  comes  in  below, 
breast-high  ere  it  breaks,  and  the  white  fringe  of  the  sliding  wave 
shoots  up  the  beach,  but  leaves  room  for  the  marching  of  a  Per- 
sian phalanx  on  the  sands  it  has  deserted.  Oh,  how  noiselessly 
runs  the  wheel,  and  how  dreamily  we  glide  along,  feeling  our  mo- 
tion but  in  the  resistance  of  the  wind,  and  in  the  trout-like  pull  of 
the  ribands  by  the  excited  animal  before  us.  Mark  the  color  of 
the  sand  !  White  at  high-water  mark,  and  thence  deepening  to 
a  silvery  gray  as  the  water  has  evaporated  less — a  slab  of  Egyp- 
tian granite  in  the  obelisk  of  St.  Peter's  not  more  polished  and 
unimpressible.  Shell  or  rock,  weed  or  quicksand,  there  is  none  ; 
and,  mar  or  deface  its  bright  surface  as  you  will,  it  is  ever  beaten 
down  anew,  and  washed  even  of  the  dust  of  the  foot  of  man,  by 
the  returning  sea.  You  may  write  upon  its  fine-grained  face  with 
a  crowquill — you  may  course  over  its  dazzling  expanse  with  a 
troop  of  chariots. 

Most  wondrous  and  beautiful  of  all,  within  twenty  yards  of  the 


206  A  TROT  Ox\  THE  BEACH. 


Burf,  or  for  an  hour  after  the  tide  has  left  the  sand,  it  holds  the 
water  without  losing  its  firmness,  and  is  like  a  gray  mirror,  bright 
as  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  (By  your  leave,  Thalaba !)  And  now 
lean  over  the  dasher,  and  see  those  small  fetlocks  striking  up  from 
beneath — the  flying  mane,  the  thorough-bred  action,  the  small  and 
expressive  head,  as  perfect  in  the  reflection  as  in  the  reality  ;  like 
Wordsworth's  swan,  he 

"  Trots  double,  horse  and  shadow." 

You  would  swear  you  were  skimming  the  surface  of  the  sea ;  and 
the  delusion  is  more  complete,  as  the  white  foam  of  the  "  tenth 
wave"  skims  in  beneath  wheel  and  hoof,  and  you  urge  on,  with  the 
treacherous  element  gliding  away  visibly  beneath  you. 

We  seem  not  to  have  driven  fast,  yet  three  miles,  fairly  mea- 
sured, are  left  behind,  and  Thalaba's  blood  is  up.  Fine  creature  ! 
I  would  not  give  hi'Ji 

'•  For  the  best  horse  the  Sun  has  in  his  stable." 

We  have  won  cbaiupagne  ere  now,  Thalaba,  and  I,  trotting  on 
this  silveiy  beach  ;  and  if  ever  old  age  comes  on  me,  and  I  intend 
it  never  shall,  on  aught  save  my  mortal  coil,  (my  spirit  vowed  to 
perpetual  youth),  I  think  these  vifal  breczas,  and  a  trot  on  these 
exhilarating  sands,  would  sooner  renew  my  prime  than  a  rock  in 
St.  Hilary's  cradle,  or  a  dip  in  the  well  of  Kanathos.  May  wo 
try  the  experiment  together,  gentle  reader  ! 

I  am  not  settled  in  my  own  mind  whether  this  description  ot 
one  of  my  favorite  haunts  in  America  was  written  most  to  intro- 
duce the  story  that  is  to  follow,  or  the  story  to  introduce  the  de- 
scription. Possibly  the  latter,  for,  having  consumed  my  callow 
youth  in  wandering  "to  and  fro  in  the  earth,"  like  Sathanas  of 
old,  and  looking  on  my  country  now  with  an  eye  from  which  all 


EARLIER  DAYS.  207 


tbe  minor  and  temporary  features  have  gradually  faded,  I  find  my 
pride  in  it  (after  its  glory  as  a  republic)  settling  principally  on 
the  superior  handiwork  of  nature  in  its  land  and  water.  When  I 
talk  of  it  DOW,  it  is  looking  through  another's  eyes — his  who  lis- 
tens. I  do  not  describe  it  after  my  own  memory  of  what  it  was 
once  to  mCj  but  according  to  my  idea  of  what  it  will  seem  now  to  a 
stranger.  Hence  I  speak  not  of  the  friends  I  made,  rambling  by 
lake  or  river.  The  lake  and  the  river  are  there,  but  the  friends 
are  changed — to  themselves  and  me.  I  speak  not  of  the  lovely 
and  loving  ones  that  stood  by  me,  looking  on  glen  or  waterfall. 
The  glen  and  the  waterfall  are  romantic  still,  but  the  form  and 
the  heart  that  breathed  through  it  are  no  longer  lovely  or  loving. 
I  should  renew  my  joys  by  the  old  mountain  and  river,  for,  all 
they  ever  were  I  should  find  them  still,  and  never  seem  to  myself 
grown  old,  or  cankered  of  the  world,  or  changed  in  form  or  spirit, 
while  they  reminded  me  but  of  my  youth,  with  their  familiar  sun- 
shine and  beauty.  But  the  friends  that  I  knew — as  I  knew  them 
— are  dead.  They  look  no  longer  the  same  ;  they  have  another 
heart  in  them  ;  the  kindness  of  the  eye,  the  smilingness  of  the  lip, 
are  no  more  there.  Philosophy  tells  me,  the  material  and  living 
body  changes  and  renews,  particle  by  particle,  with  time ;  and  ex- 
perience— cold-blooded  and  stony  monitor — tells  me,  in  his  frozen 
monotone,  that  heart  and  spirit  change  with  it  and  renew  !  But 
the  name  remains,  mockery  that  it  is !  and  the  memory  some- 
times ;  and  so  these  apparitions  of  the  past — that  we  almost  fear 
to  question  when  they  encounter  us,  lest  the  change  they  have  un- 
dergone should  freeze  our  blood — stare  coldly  on  us,  yet  call  us 
by  name,  and  answer,  though  coldly  to  their  own,  and  have  that 
terrible  similitude  to  what  they  were,  mingled  with  their  unsym- 
pathizing  and  hollow  mummery,  that  we  wish  the  grave  of  the 


208  STUFF  FOR  FRIENDSHIPS. 

past,  with  all  that  it  contained  of  kind  or  lovely,  had  been  sealed 
for  ever.  The  heart  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth  (so  read 
I  the  book  of  human  life)  is  the  only  one  that  cannot  forget 
that  it  has  loved  us.  As  we  once  wove  the  sentiment  into  a 
verse : — 

"  Mother !  dear  mother !  the  feelings  nurst 
As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  clung  round  thee  fir st— - 
'Twas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain, 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain ; 
And  as,  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Some  friend,  still  trusted,  drops  away, 
Mother !  dear  mother !  oh.  dost  thou  see 
How  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee  P^ 

II. 

I  have  observed  that  of  all  the  friends  one  has  in  the  course  of 
his  life,  the  truest  and  most  attached  is  exactly  the  one  who,  from 
his  dissimilarity  to  yourself,  the  world  finds  it  very  odd  you  should 
fancy.  We  hear  sometimes  of  lovers  who  '^  are  made  for  each 
other,"  but  rarely  of  the  same  natural  match  in  friendship.  It  is 
no  great  marvel.  In  a  world  like  this,  where  we  pluck  so  despe- 
rately at  the  fruit  of  plea&.ire,  we  prefer  for  company  those  who 
are  not  formed  with  precisely  the  same  palate  as  ourselves.  You 
will  seldom  go  wrong,  dear  reader,  if  you  refer  any  human  ques- 
tion about  which  you  are  in  doubt,  to  that  icy  oracle — selfishness. 

My  shadow  for  many  years  was  a  gentle  monster,  whom  I  have 
before  mentioned,  baptized  by  the  name  of  Forbearance  Smith. 
He  was  k  Vermontese,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  Puritan  Pilgrims, 
and  the  first  of  his  family  who  had  left  the  Grreen  Mountains  since 
the  flight  of  the  regicides  to  America.     We  assimilate  to  what  wo 


EARLIER  DAYS.  209 


live  amon^,  and  Forbearance  was  very  green^  and  very  like  a 
mcuntain.  He  had  a  general  resemblance  to  one  of  Thorwald- 
sen's  unfinished  apostles — larger  than  life,  and  just  hewn  into  out- 
line. My  acquaintance  with  him  commenced  during  my  first  year 
at  the  university.  He  stalked  into  my  room  one  morning  with  a 
hair-trunk  on  his  back,  and  handed  me  the  following  note  from 
the  tutor : — 

''  Sir  :  The  Faculty  have  decided  to  impose  upon  you  the  fine 
of  ten  dollars  and  damages,  for  painting  the  president's  horse,  on 
Sabbath  night,  while  grazing  on  the  college  green.  They,  more- 
over, have  removed  Freshman  Wilding  from  your  rooms,  and  ap- 
point, as  your  future  chum,  the  studious  and  exemplary  bearer, 
Forbearance  Smith,  to  whom  you  are  desired  to  show  a  becoming 
respect. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"Erasmus  Snufflegreek. 

"  To  Freshman  Sling  shy. '''^ 

Rather  relieved  by  my  lenient  sentence  (for,  till  the  next  shed- 
ding of  his  well-saturated  coat,  the  sky-blue  body  and  red  mane 
and  tail  of  the  president's  once  gray  mare  would  interfere  with 
that  esteemed  animal's  usefulness),  I  received  Mr.  Smith  with 
more^  politeness  than  he  expected.  He  deposited  his  hair-trunk 
in  the  vacant  bedroom,  and  remarked  with  a  good-humored  smile 
that  it  was  a  cold  morning  ;  and  seating  himself  in  my  easiest  chair, 
opened  his  Euclid,  and  went  to  work  upon  a  problem,  as  perfectly 
at  home  as  if  he  had  furnished  the  room  himself,  and  lived  in  it 
from  his  matriculation.  I  had  expected  some  preparatory  apolo- 
gy at  least,  and  was  a  little  annoyed ;  but,  being  upon  my  good 
behavior,  I  bit  my  lips,  and  resumed  the  "  Art  of  Love,"  upon 


210  MODEL  RECEPiION  OF  AN  INSULT. 


which  1  was  just  then  practising  my  nascent  Latinity,  instead  of 
calculating  logarithms  for  recitation.  In  about  an  hour,  my  new 
chum  suddenly  vociferated  "  Eureka  /"  shut  up  his  book,  and 
having  stretched  himself,  (a  very  unnecessary  operation),  coolly 
walked  to  my  dressing-table,  selected  my  best  hair-brush,  redo- 
lent of  Macassar,  and  used  it  with  the  greatest  apparent  satisfac- 
tion. 

"  Have  you  done  with  that  hair-brush  ?"  I  asked,  as  he  laid  it 
in  its  place  again. 

"Oh  yes!" 

"  Then,  perhaps,  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  throw  it  out  of 
the  window." 

He  did  it  without  the  slightest  hesitation.  He  then  resumed 
his  seat  by  the  fire,  and  I  went  on  with  my  book  in  silence. 
Twenty  minutes  had  elapsed,  when  he  rose  very  deliberately,  and, 
without  a  word  of  preparation,  gave  me  a  cufi"  that  sent  me  flying 
into  the  wood-basket  in  the  corner  behind  me.  As  soon  as  I 
could  pick  myself  out,  I  flew  upon  him,  but  I  might  as  well  have 
grappled  with  a  boa-constrictor.  He  held  me  ofi"  at  arm's  length 
till  I  was  quite  exhausted  with  rage,  and,  at  last,  when  I  could 
struggle  no  more,  I  found  breath  to  ask  him  what  the  devil  he 
meant. 

''  To  resent  what  seemed  to  me,  on  reflection,  to  be  an  insult," 
he  answered,  in  the  calmest  tone,  "  and  now  to  ask  your  pardon 
for  a  fault  of  ignorance.  The  first  was  due  to  myself,  the  second 
to  you." 

Thenceforth,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody  and  Bob  Wilding  and 
the  tutor,  we  were  inseparable.  I  took  Bruin  (by  a  double  elision 
Forlearanct  became  "  htar^''  and  by  a  paraphrase  Bruin^  and  he 
answered  to  ihQ  name) — I  took  him,  I  say,  to  the  omnium  shop, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  211 


and  preseniod  hini  with  a  dressing-case,  and  other  appliances  for 
his  outer  man  ;  and,  as  my  inntr  man  was  relatively  as  much  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  we  mutually  improved.  I  instructed  him 
in  poetry  and  politeness,  and  he  returned  the  lesson  in  problems 
and  politics.     My  star  was  never  in  more  fortunate  conjunction. 

Four  years  had  woven  their  threads  of  memory  about  us,  and 
there  was  never  woof  more  free  from  blemish.  Our  friendship 
was  proverbial.  All  that  much  care  and  Macassar  could  do  for 
Bruin  had  been  done,  but  there  was  no  abating  his  seven  feet  of 
stature,  nor  reducing  the  size  of  his  feet  proper,  nor  making  the 
muscles  of  his  face  answer  to  their  natural  wires.  At  his  most 
placid  smile,  a  strange  waiter  would  run  for  a  hot  towel  and  the 
doctor  ;  (colic  was  not  more  like  itself  than  that  like  colic)  ;  and 
for  his  motions — oh  Lord  !  a  skeleton,  with  each  individual  bone 
app_^ndjd  to  its  neighbor  with  a  string,  would  execute  a  jpas  seul 
with  the  same  expression.  His  mind,  however,  had  none  of  the 
ftv.kwardness  of  his  body.  A  simplicity  and  truth,  amounting  to 
the  greatest  ndivcfe^  and  a  fatuitous  unconsciousness  of  the  effect 
on  beholders  of  his  outer  man,  were  its  only  approaches  to  fault 
or  foible.  With  the  finest  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the  most  uner- 
ring judgment  in  literary  taste,  the  purest  romance,  a  fervid  en- 
thusiasm, constancy,  courage,  and  good  temper,  he  walked  about 
the  world  in  a  mask — an  admirable  creature,  in  the  guise  and 
seennng  of  a  ludicrous  monster. 

Bruin  was  sensitive  on  but  one  point.  He  never  could  forgive 
his  father  and  mother  for  the  wrong  they  had  entailed  on  him  at 
his  baj)tism.  "  Forbearance  Smith  !"  he  would  say  to  himself 
sometimes  in  unconscious  soliloquy,  "  they  should  have  given  me 
the  virtue  as  well  as  the  name  !"  And  then  he  would  sit  with  a 
pen,  and  scrawl  "  F.  Smith"  on  a  sheet  of  paper  by  the  hour  to- 


212  EXCUSES  FOR  INCONSTANCY. 


gether.     To  insist  upon  knowing  his  Christian  name  was  the  one 
impertinence  he  never  forgave. 

III. 

My  party  at  Nahant  consisted  of  Thalaba,  Forbearance,  and 
myself.  The  place  was  crowded,  but^I  passed  my  time  very 
much  between  my  horse  and  my  friend,  and  was  as  certain  to  be 
found  on  the  beach,  when  the  tide  was  down,  as  the  sea  to  have 
left  the  sands.  Job  (a  synonyme  for  Forbearance  which  became, 
at  this  time,  his  common  sobriquet)  was,  of  course,  in  love.  Not 
the  least  to  the  prejudice,  however,  of  his  last  faithful  passion — 
for  he  was  as  fond  of  the  memory  of  an  old  love,  as  he  was  tender  in 
the  presence  of  the  new.  I  intended  to  have  had  him  dissected 
after  his  death,  to  see  whether  his  organization  was  not  poculiar. 
I  strongly  incline  to  the  opinion  that  we  should  have  found  a  mir- 
ror in  the  place  of  his  heart.  Strange  !  how  the  same  man  who 
is  so  fickle  in  love,  will  be  so  constant  in  friendship  !  But  is  it 
fickleness  ?  Is  it  not  rather  a  superjlw  of  tenderness  in  the  na- 
ture, which  overflows  to  all  who  approach  the  fountain  ?  I  have 
ever  observed  that  the  most  susceptible  men  are  the  most  remark- 
able for  the  finer  qualities  of  character.  They  are  more  generous, 
more  delicate,  and  of  a  more  chivalrous  complexion  altogether, 
than  other  men.  It  was  surprising  how  reasonably  Bruin 
would  argue  upon  this  point.  "  Because  I  was  happy  at  Ni- 
agara," he  was  saying  one  day  as  we  sat  upon  the  rocks,  *'  shall  1 
take  no  pleasure  in  the  Falls  of  Montmorenci  Because  the  sun- 
set was  glorious  yesterday,  shall  I  find  no  beauty  in  that  of  to-day  ? 
Is  my  fancy  to  be  used  but  once,  and  the  key  turned  upon  it  for 
ever  ?  Is  the  heart  like  a  lonhon^  to  be  eaten  up  by  the  first  fa- 
vorite, and  thought  of  no  more  .?     Are  our  eyes  blind,  save  to  one 


EARLIER  DAYS.  213 

shape  of  beauty  ?     Are  our  ears  insensible  to  the  music,  save  of 


one  voice 


?" 


"  But  do  you  not  weaken  the  heart,  and  become  incapable  of  a 
lasting  attachment,  by  this  habit  of  inconstancy  ?" 

"  How  long,  my  dear  Phil,  will  you  persist  in  talking  as  if  the 
heart  were  material,  and  held  so  much  love,  as  a  cup  so  much 
water,  and  had  legs  to  be  weary,  or  organs  to  grow  dull  ?  How  is 
my  sensibility  lessened — how  my  capacity  enfeebled  ?  Vvliat 
would  I  have  done  for  my  first  love,  that  I  would  not  do  for  my 
last  ?  I  would  have  sacrificed  my  life  to  secure  the  happiness  of 
one  you  wot  of,  in  days  gone  by ;  I  would  jump  into  the  sea,  if  it 
would  make  Blanche  Carroll  happier  to-morrow." 

"  Sautez-doncP'*  said  a  thrilling  voice  behind  ;  and,  as  if  the 
utterance  of  her  name  had  conjured  her  out  of  the  ground,  the  ob- 
ject of  all  Job's  admiration,  and  a  little  of  my  own,  stood  before 
us.  She  had  a  work-basket  in  her  hand,  a  gipsy-hat  tossed  care- 
lessly on  her  head,  and  had  preceded  a  whole  troop  of  belles  and 
matrons,  who  were  coming  out  to  while  away  the  morning,  and 
breathe  the  invigorating  sea-air,  on  the  rocks. 

Blanche  Carroll  was  what  the  women  would  call  "  a  little  love  ;" 
but  that  phrase  of  endearment  would  not  at  all  express  the  feel- 
ing with  which  she  inspired  the  men.  She  was  small,  and  her 
face  and  figure  might  have  been  framed  in  fairy-land  for  bewitch- 
ing beauty ;  but,  with  the  manner  of  a  spoiled  child,  and,  appa- 
rently, the  most  thoughtless  playfulness  of  mind,  she  was  as  veri- 
table a  little  devil  as  ever  took  the  shape  of  a  woman.  Scarce 
seventeen  at  this  time,  she  had  a  knowledge  of  character  that  was 
like  an  instinct,  and  was  an  accomplished  actress  in  any  part  it 
was  necessary  for  her  purpose  to  play.  No  grave  Machiavel  ever 
managed  his  cards  with  more  finesse,  than  that  little  intriguante^ 


214  BLANCHE  CARROLL. 

the  limited  world  of  wliicli  slie  was  the  star.  She  was  a  natural 
master-spirit  and  plotter ;  and  the  talent  that  would  have  em- 
ployed itself  in  the  deeper  game  of  politics,  had  she  been  horn  a 
woman  of  rank  in  Europe,  displayed  itself,  in  the  simple  society 
of  a  Kepublic,  in  subduing  to  her  power  everything  in  the  shape 
of  a  sino-le  man  that  ventured  to  her  net.  I  have  nothinp;  to  tell 
of  her,  at  all  commensurate  with  the  character  I  have  drawn ;  for 
the  disposal  of  her  own  heart,  (if  she  has  one,)  must,  of  course, 
be  the  most  important  event  of  her  life  ;  but,  I  merely  pencil  the 
outline  of  the  portrait,  in  passing,  as  a  specimen  of  the  material 
that  exists — even  in  the  simplest  society — for  the  dramatis  'per- 
sons of  a  court. 

We  followed  the  light-footed  beauty  to  the  shelter  of  one  of  the 
caves  opening  on  the  sea,  and  seated  ourselves  about  her  upon 
the  rocks.     Some  one  proposed  that  Job  or  myself  should  read. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Smith,"  interrupted  the  belle,  "  where  is  my  brace- 
let }  and  where  are  my  verses  ?" 

At  the  ball  the  night  before,  she  had  dropped  a  bracelet  in  the 
waltz,  and  Job  had  been  permitted  to  take  care  of  the  fragments, 
on  condition  of  restoring  them,  with  a  sonnet,  the  next  morning. 
She  had  just  thought  of  it. 

"Read  them  out!  read  them  out!"  she  cried,  as  Job,  blush- 
ing a  deep  blue,  extracted  a  tri-colored  pink  document  from  his 
pocket,  and  tried  to  give  it  to  her  unobserved,  with  the  packet  of 
jewelry.  Job  looked  at  her  imploringly,  and  she  took  the  verses 
from  his  hand,  and  ran  her  eye  through  them. 

Pretty  well  !"  she  said  ;  "  but  the  last  line  might  be  improved. 
Give  me  a  pencil,  some  one  !"  And  bending  over  it,  till  her 
luxuriant  hair  concealed  her  fairy  fingers  in  their  employment, 
she  wrote  a  moment  upon  her  knee,  and,  tossing  the  paper  to  me. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  215 


bade  me  read  it  out  with  the  emendation.     Bruin  had,  meantime, 
modestly  disappeared,  and  I  read  with  the  more  freedom— 

'Twas  broken  in  the  gliding  dance, 

When  thou  wert  in  thy  dream  of  power ; 
When  shape  and  motion,  tone  and  glance, 

Were  glorious  all — the  woman's  hour ! 
The  light  lay  soft  upon  thy  brow, 

The  music  melted  in  thine  ear, 
And  one,  perhaps,  forgotten  now. 

With  'wildered  thoughts  stood  listening  near 
Marvelling  not  that  links  of  gold 
A  pulse  like  thine  had  not  controlled. 

*  'Tis  midnight  now.     The  dance  is  done, 

And  thou,  in  thy  soft  dreams,  asleep, 
And  I,  awake,  am  gazing  on 

The  fragments  given  me  to  keep : 
I  think  of  every  glowing  vein 

That  ran  beneath  these  links  of  gold, 
And  wonder  if  a  thrill  of  pain 

Made  those  bright  channels  ever  cold ! 
With  gifts  like  thine,  I  cannot  think, 
Grief  ever  chilled  this  broken  link. 

"  Good  night !     'Tis  little  now  to  thee. 

That  in  my  ear  thy  Avords  were  spoken 
And  thou  wilt  think  of  them  and  me, 

As  long  as  of  the  bracelet  broken. 
For  thus  is  riven  many  a  chain. 

That  thou  hast  fastened  but  to  break ; 
And  thus  thou'lt  sink  to  sleep  again, 

As  careless  that  another  wake : 
The  only  thought  thy  heart  can  rend, 
Is — what  the  fellow'' II  charge  to  mendP^ 

Job'g  conclusion  was  more  pathetic,  but.  probably,  less  true 


216  IMPERIOUS  BELLE, 


He  appeared  after  the  applause  had  ceased,  and  resumed  his 
place  at  the  lady's  feet,  with  a  look  in  his  countenance  of  having 
deserved  an  abatement  of  persecution.  The  beauty  spread  out 
the  fragments  of  the  broken  bracelet  on  the  rock  beside  her. 

"  Mr.  Smith  !"  said  she,  in  her  most  conciliating  tone. 

Job  leaned  toward  her,  with  a  look  of  devoted  inquiry. 

"  Has  the  tide  turned  .^" 

"  Certainly.     Two  hours  since." 

*'  The  beach  is  passable,  then  .^" 

"Hardly,  I  fear." 

"  No  matter.     How  many  hours'  drive  is  it  to  Salem  .?" 

"Mr.  Slingsby  drives  it  in  two." 

"  Then  you'll  get  Mr.  Slingsby  to  lend  you  his  stanhope,  drive 
to  Salem,  have  this  bracelet  mended,  and  bring  it  back  in  time 
for  the  ball.     I  have  spoken,  as  the  Grand  Turk  says.     Allez  P^ 

"  But,  my  dear  Miss  Caroll " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  mouth,  as  he  began  to  remonstrate ; 
and  while  I  made  signs  to  him  to  refuse,  she  said  something  to 
him  which  I  lost  in  a  sudden  dash  of  the  waters.  He  looked  at 
me  for  my  consent. 

"  Oh  !  you  can  have  Mr.  Slingsby 's  horse,"  said  the  beauty,  as 
I  hesitated  whether  my  refusal  would  not  check  her  tyranny, 
"  and  I'll  drive  him  out  this  evening  for  his  reward,  JSPest-ce  pas  ? 
you  cross  man !" 

So,  with  a  sun  hot  enough  to  fry  the  brains  in  his  skull,  and  a 
quivering  reflection  on  the  sands,  that  would  burn  his  face  to  a 
blister,  exit  Job,  with  the  broken  bracelet  in  his  bosom 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Slingsby,"  said  the  imperious  little  belle,  as  I  was 
making  up  a  mouth,  after  his  departure,  to  express  my  disappro- 
bation of  her  measures — "  no  lecture,  if  you  please.     Give  me 


EARLIER  DAYS.  217 


that  book  of  plays,  and  I'll  read  you  a  precedent.  Because  you 
are  virtuous,  shall  we  have  no  more  cakes  and  ale  }  EcouUz  ! 
Aud,  with  au  emphasis  and  expression,  that  would  have  been  per- 
fect on  the  stage,  she  read  the  following  passage  from  ''  The  Care- 
less Husband" — 

'*  Lady  Betty. — The  men  of  sense,  my  dear,  make  the  best 
fools  in  the  world  ;  their  sincerity  and  good  breeding  throw  them 
so  entirely  into  one's  power,  and  give  one  such  an  agreeable 
thirst  of  using  them  ill,  to  show  that  power — 'tis  impossible  net 
to  quench  it." 

^'-  Lady  Easy. — But,  my  Lord  Morelove — " 

"  Lady  B. — Pooh  !  my  Lord  Morelove's  a  mere  Indiau 
damask — one  can't  wear  him  out ;  o'  my  conscience,  I  must  give 
hbn  to  my  woman,  at  last.  I  begin  to  be  known  by  him  ;  had  I 
not  best  leave  him  ofl*,  my  dear  .^" 

"  Lady  E. — Why  did  you  ever  encourage  him  ?" 

'*  Lady  B. — Why,  what  would  you  have  one  do  ^  For  my 
part,  I  could  no  more  choose  a  man  by  my  eye  than  a  shoe — one 
must  draw  them  on  a  little,  to  see  if  they  are  right  to  one's 
foot." 

"  Lady  E. — But  I'd  no  more  fool  on  with  a  man  I  could  not 
like,  than  wear  a  shoo  that  pinched  me." 

*'  Lady  B. — Ay  ;  but  then  a  poor  wretch  tells  one  he'll  widen 
'em,  or  do  anything  ;  and  is  so  civil  and  sUly,  that  one  does  not 
know  how  to  turn  such  a  trifle  as  a  pair  of  shoes,  or  a  heart, 
upon  a  fellow's  hands  again." 

"  Lady  E. — And  there's  my  Lord  Foppington." 

''  Lady  B. — My  dear  !  fine  fruit  will  have  flies  about  it ;  but, 
DOor  things  !  they  do  it  no  harm  ;  for,  if  you  observe,  people  are 
10 


21g  A  BELLE'S  WHIM. 

generally  most  apt  to  choose  that  the  flies  have  been  busy  with 
Ha !  ha  !" 

"  Lady  £.— Thou  art  a  strange,  giddy  creature  !" 

"  Lady  B. — That  may  be  from  too  much  circulation  of  thought 
my  dear !" 

"  Pray,  Miss  Carroll,'  said  I,  as  she  threw  aside  the  book,  with 
a  theatrical  air,  "  have  you  any  precedent  for  broiling  a  man's 
brains,  as  well  as  breaking  his  heart  ?  For,  by  this  time,  my  friend 
Forbearance  has  a  coujp  de  solid,  and  is  hissing  over  the  beach 
like  a  steam-engine." 

"  How  tiresome  you  are  !     Po  you  really  think  it  will  kill 

him  ?" 

"  It  might  injure  him  seriously— let  alone  the  danger  of  driving 
a  spirited  horse  over  the  beach,  with  the  tide  quarter-down." 

"  What  shall  I  do  to  be  '  taken  out  of  the  corner,'  Mr.  Slings- 

by  ?" 

"  Order  your  horses  an  hour  sooner,  and  drive  to  Lynn,  to 
meet  him  half  way  on  his  return.  I  will  resume  my  stanhope, 
and  give  him  the  happiness  of  driving  back  with  you." 

"  And  shall  I  be  gentle  Blanche  CaroU,  and  no  ogre,  if  I 
do  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  Mr.  Smith  surviving." 

"  Take  the  trouble  to  give  my  orders,  then ;  and  come  back 
immediately,  and  read  to  me  till  it  is  time  to  go.  Meantime,  I 
shall  look  at  myself  in  this  black  mirror."  And  the  spoilt,  but 
most  lovely  girl,  bent  over  a  dark  pool  in  the  corner  of  the  cave, 
forming  a  picture  on  its  shadowy  background,  that  drew  a  mur- 
mur of  admiration  even  from  the  neglected  group  who  had  been 
the  silent  and  disapproving  witnesses  of  her  caprice. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  219 


lY. 

A  thunder-cloud  strode  into  the  sky,  with  the  rapidity  which 
marks  that  common  phenomenon  of  a  breathless  summer  after- 
noon in  America ;  darkened  the  air  for  a  few  minutes,  so  that  the 
birds  betook  themselves  to  their  nests  ;  and  then  poured  out  its 
refreshing  waters,  with  the  most  terrific  flashes  of  lightning  and 
crashes  of  thunder,  which,  for  a  moment,  seemed  to  still  even  the 
eternal  base  of  the  sea.  With  the  same  fearful  rapidity,  the 
black  roof  of  the  sky  tore  apart,  and  fell  back,  in  rolling  and 
changing  masses,  upon  the  horizon  ;  the  sun  darted  with  intense 
brilliancy  through  the  clarified  and  transparent  air ;  the  light- 
stirring  breeze  came  freighted  with  delicious  coolness  ;  and  the 
lieavy  sea-birds,  who  had  lain  brooding  on  the  waves,  while  the 
tumult  of  the  elements  went  on,  rose  on  their  cimeter-like  wings, 
and  fled  away,  with  incomprehensible  instinct,  from  the  beautiful 
and  freshening  land.  The  whole  face  of  earth  and  sky  had  been 
changed  in  an  hour. 

Oh,  of  what  fulness  of  delight  are  even  the  senses  capable  ! 
What  a  nerve  there  is  sometimes  in  every  pore  '  What  love,  for 
all  living  and  all  inanimate  things,  may  be  born  of  a  summer 
shower !  How  stirs  the  fancy,  and  brightens  hope,  and  warms 
the  heart,  and  sings  the  spirit  within  us,  at  the  mere  animal  joy 
with  which  the  lark  flies  into  heaven  !  And  yet,  of  this  exquisite 
capacity  for  pleasure,  we  take  so  little  care  !  We  refine  our  taste — 
we  elaborate  and  finish  our  mental  perception — we  study  the  beau- 
tiful, that  we  may  know  it  when  it  appears  ;  yet,  the  senses  by 
which  these  faculties  are  approached,  the  stops  by  which  this  fine 
instrument  is  played,  are  trifled  with  and  neglected.  We  forget 
^at  a  single  excess  blurs  and  confuses  the  music  written  on  our 


220  A  LADY- WHIP. 


iniuds — W3  forget  that  an  untimely  vigil  weakens  and  bewildera 
the  delicate  minister  to  our  inner  temple — we  know  not,  or  act  as 
if  we  knew  not,  that  the  fine  and  easily -jarred  harmony  of  health, 
is  the  only  interpreter  of  Nature  to  our  souls — in  short,  we  drink 
too  much  claret,  and  eat  too  muGh  pate  f die  gras.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me,  gourmand  et  gourmet! 

Blanche  Carroll  was  a  beautiful  whip,  and  the  two  bay  ponies 
in  her  phaeton  were  quite  aware  of  it.  La  Bruyere  says,  with 
his  usual  wisdom,  "  Une  belle  femme  qui  a  les  qualites  d'un 
honnete  homme  est  ce  qu'il  y  a  au  monde  d'un  commerce  plus 
deJicieux  ;"  and,  to  a  certain  degree,  masculine  accomplishments, 
too,  are  very  winning  in  a  woman — if  pretty  ;  if  plain,  she  is  ex- 
pected not  only  to  be  quite  feminine,  but  quite  perfect.  Foibles 
are  as  hateful  in  a  woman  who  does  not  possess  beauty,  as  they 
are  engaging  in  a  woman  who  does.  Clouds  are  only  lovely  when 
the  heavens  are  bright. 

She  looked  loveliest  while  driving,  did  Blanche  Carroll ;  for 
she  was  born  to  rule,  and  the  expression  native  to  her  lip  was  energy 
and  nerve  ;  and,  as  she  sat  with  her  little  foot  pressed  against  the 
dasher,  and  reined  in  those  spirited  horses,  the  finely-pencilled 
mouth,  usually  playful  or  pettish,  was  pressed  together  in  a  curve 
as  warlike  as  Minerva's,  and  twice  as  captivating.  She  drove, 
too.  as  capriciously  as  she  acted.  At  one  moment  her  fleet  ponies 
fled  over  the  sand  at  the  top  of  their  speed ;  and,  at  the  next,  they 
were  brought  down  to  a  walk,  with  a  suddenness  which  threatened 
to  bring  them  upon  their  haunches.  Now  far  up  on  the  dry  sand, 
cutting  a  zigzag  to  lengthen  the  way  ;  and  again,  below  at  the  tide 
edge,  with  the  waves  breaking  over  her  seaward  wheel :  all  her 
powers,  at  one  instant,  engrossed  in  pushing  them  to  their  fastest 
trot ;  and,  in  another,  the  reins  lying  loose  on  their  backs,  while 


EARLIER  DAYS.  gSl 


she  discussed  some  sudden  flight  of  philosophy.  "  Be  his  fairy, 
his  page,  his  everything  that  love  and  poetry  have  invented," 
said  Roger  Aseham  to  Lady  Jane  Grey,  just  before  her  marriage  ; 
but  Blanche  Carroll  was  almost  the  only  woman  I  ever  saw,  capa- 
ble of  the  heau  ideal  of  fascinating  characters. 

Between  I\Iiss  CaroU  and  myself,  there  was  a  safe  and  cordial 
friendship.  Besides  loving  another  better,  she  was  neither  ear- 
nest, nor  true,  nor  affectionate  enough,  to  come  at  all  within  the 
range  of  my  possible  attachments ;  and,  though  I  admired  her, 
she  felt  that  the  necessary  sympathy  was  wanting  for  love  ;  and, 
the  idea,  of  fooling  me  with  the  rest,  once  abandoned,  we  were 
the  greatest  of  allies.  She  told  me  all  her  triumphs,  and  I  lis- 
tened and  laughed,  without  thinking  it  worth  while  to  burden  her 
with  my  confidence  in  return  ;  and  you  may  as  well  make  a 
memorandum,  gentle  reader,  that  that  is  a  very  good  basis  for  a 
friendship.  Nothing  bores  women  or  worldly  persons  so  much,  as 
to  return  their  secrets  with  your  own. 

As  we  drew  near  the  extremity  of  the  beach,  a  boy  rode  up  on 
horseback,  and  presented  Miss  Carroll  with  a  note.  I  observed 
that  it  was  written  on  a  very  dirty  slip  of  paper,  and  was  waiting 
to  be  enlightened  as  to  its  contents,  when  she  slipped  it  into  her 
belt,  took  the  whip  from  the  box,  and,  flogging  her  ponies  through 
the  heavy  sand  of  the  outer  beach,  went  off,  at  a  pace  which 
seemed  to  engross  all  her  attention,  on  her  road  to  Lynn.  We 
reached  the  hotel,  and  she  had  not  spoken  a  syllable  ;  and,  as  I 
made  a  point  of  never  inquiring  into  anything  that  seemed  odd 
in  her  conduct,  I  merely  stole  a  glance  at  her  face— which  wore 
the  expression  of  mischievous  satisfaction,  that  I  liked  the  least 
of  its  common  expressions — and  descended  from  the  phaeton,  with 


222  A  MYSTERY, 

the  simple  remark,  that  Job  could  not  have  arrived,  a&  I  saw 
nothing  of  my  stanhope  in  the  3'ard. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby."  It  was  the  usual  preface  to  asking  some  par- 
ticular favor. 

"  Miss  Carroll." 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  walk  to  the  library,  and  select  me 
a  book  to  your  own  taste,  and  ask  no  questions  as  to  what  I  do 
with  myself  meantime  .^" 

But,  my  dear  Miss  Carroll — your  father " 

"Will  feel  quite  satisfied  when  he  hears  that  Cato  was  with  me. 
Leave  the  ponies  to  the  groom,  Cato,  and  follow  me."  I  looked 
after  her  as  she  walked  down  the  village  street  with  the  old  black 
behind  her,  not  at  all  certain  of  the  propriety  of  my  acquiescence, 
but  feeling  that  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

I  lounged  away  a  half  hour  at  the  library,  and  found  Miss  Car- 
roll waiting  for  me  on  my  return.  There  were  no  signs  of  Bruin ; 
and,  as  she  seemed  impatient  to  be  oif,  I  jumped  into  the  phaeton, 
and  away  we  flew  to  the  beach  as  fast  as  her  ponies  could  be 
driven  under  the  whip.  As  we  descended  upon  the  sands  she 
spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  It  is  so  civil  of  you  to  ask  no  questions,  Mr.  Slingsby  ;  but 
you  are  noi  oifended  with  me  .^" 

"  If  you  have  got  into  no  scrape  while  under  my  charge,  I  shall 
certainly  be  too  happy  to  shake  hands  upon  it  to-morrow." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  .?"  she  asked  archly. 

''  Quite  sure." 

"  So  am  not  I,"  she  said  with  a  merry  laugh  ;  and  in  her  ex- 
cessive amusement  she  drove  down  to  the  sea,  till  the  surf  broke 
over  the  nearest  poney's  back,  and  filled  the  bottom  of  the  phae- 
ton with  water.     Our  wet  feet  were  now  a  fair  apology  for  haste, 


EARLIER  DAYS.  223 


and,  taking  the  reins  from  her,  I  drove  rapidly  home,  while  she 
wrapped  herself  in  her  shawl,  and  sat  apparently  absorbed  in  the 
coming  of  the  twilight  over  the  sea. 

I  slept  late  after  the  ball,  though  I  had  gone  to  bed  exceedingly 
anxious  about  Bruin,  who  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  The 
tide  would  prevent  his  crossing  the  beach  after  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing, however,  and  I  made  myself  tolerably  easy  till  the  sands  were 
passable  with  the  evening  ebb.  The  high-water  mark  was 
scarcely  deserted  by  the  waves,  when  the  same  boy  who  had  de- 
livered the  note  to  Miss  Carroll  the  day  before,  rode  up  from  the 
beach  on  a  panting  horse,  and  delivered  me  the  following  note  : — 

"  Dear  Philip  :  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  am  in 
the  Lynn  jail  on  a  charge  of  theft  and  utterance  of  counterfeit 
money.  I  do  not  wait  to  tell  you  the  particulars.  Please  come 
and  identify. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  F.  Smith." 

I  got  upon  the  boy's  horse,  and  hurried  over  the  beach  with 
whip  and  spur.  I  stopped  at  the  justice's  office,  and  that  worthy 
seemed  uncommonly  pleased  to  see  me. 

"  We  have  got  him,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  Got  whom  .^"  I  asked  rather  shortly. 

"  Why,  the  fellow  that  stole  your  stanhope  and  Miss  Carroll's 
bracelet,  and  passed  a  twenty  dollar  counterfeit  bill — ha'n't  you 
hearw  on't  .^" 

The  justice's  incredulity,  when  I  told  him  it  was  probably  the 
most  intimate  friend  I  had  in  the  world,  would  have  amused  me 
at  any  other  time. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  see  the  prisoner .?"  I  asked. 


224  QUIZ  OF  AN  ACQUAINTANCE. 


"  Be  sure  I  will,  I  let  Miss  Carroll  have  a  peep  at  him  yester- 
day, and  what  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  Lord  !  he  wanted  to  make 
her  believe  she  knew  him  !  Good  !  wasn't  it !  Ha  !  ha  !  And 
such  an  ill-looking  fellow  I  Why,  I'd  know  him  for  a  thief  any- 
where !  Yoiir  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Slingsby  !  Oh,  Lord  !  when 
you  come  to  see  him  !     Ha  !  ha  !" 

We  were  at  the  prison-door.  The  grating  bolts  turned  slowly, 
and  the  door  swung  rustily  on  its  hinges  as  if  it  was  not  often  used, 
and  in  the  next  minute  I  was  enfolded  in  Job's  arms,  who  sobbed 
and  laughed,  and  was  quite  hysterical  with  his  delight.  I  scarce 
wondered  at  the  justice's  prepossessions  when  I  looked  at  the 
figure  he  made.  His  hat  knocked  in,  his  coat  muddy,  his  hair 
full  of  the  dust  of  straw — the  natural  hideousness  of  poor  Job 
had  every  possible  aggravation. 

W^e  were  in  the  stanhope,  and  fairly  on  the  beach,  before  ho 
had  sufficiently  recovered  to  tell  me  the  story.  He  had  arrived 
quite  overheated  at  Lynn,  but,  in  a  hurry  to  execute  Miss  Car- 
rolPs  commission,  he  merely  took  a  glass  of  soda-water,  had  Tha- 
laba's  mouth  washed,  and  drove  on.  A  mile  on  his  way,  he  was 
overtaken  by  a  couple  of  ostlers  on  horseback,  who  very  roughly 
ordered  him  back  to  the  inn.  He  refused,  and  a  fight  ensued, 
which  ended  in  his  being  tied  into  the  stanhope,  and  driven  back 
as  a  prisoner.  The  large  note,  which  he  had  given  for  his  soda- 
water,  it  appeared,  was  a  counterfeit,  and  placards,  offering  a  re- 
ward for  the  detection  of  a  villain,  described  in  the  usual  manner 
as  an  ill-looking  fellow,  had  been  sticking  up  for  some  days  in  the 
village.  He  was  taken  before  the  justice,  who  declared  at  first 
eight  that  he  answered  the  description  in  the  advertisement.  His 
stubborn  refusal  to  give  the  whole  of  his  name  (he  would  rather 
have  died,  I  suppose),  his  possession  of  my  stanhope,  which  was 


EARLIER   DAYS.  225 


immediately  recognized,  and,  lastly,  the  bracelet  found  in  his 
pocket,  of  which  he  refused  indignantly  to  give  any  account,  were 
ciicunistances  enough  to  leave  no  doubt  on  the  mind  of  the  worthy 
justice.  He  made  out  his  miltimus  forthwith,  granting  Job's  re- 
quest that  he  might  be  allowed  to  write  a  note  to  Miss  Carroll 
(who,  he  knew,  would  drive  over  the  beach  toward  evening),  as  a 
very  great  favor.     She  arrived  as  he  expected. 

"  And  what  in  Heaven's  name  did  she  say .?"  said  I,  interested 
beyond  my  patience  at  this  part  of  the  story. 

Expressed  the  greatest  astonishment  when  the  justice  showed 
her  the  bracelet,  and  declared  she  nevei'  saw  vie  before  in  her 
life  r 

That  Job  forgave  Blanche  Carroll  in  two  days,  and  gave  her  a 
pair  of  gloves  with  some  verses  on  the  third,  will  surprise  only 
those  who  have  not  seen  that  lady.  It  would  seem  incrediblt?, 
but  here  are  the  verses,  as  large  as  life  : — 

"  Slave  of  the  snow^- white  hand !  I  fold 

My  spirit  in  thy  fabric  fair ; 
And,  when  that  dainty  hand  is  cold, 

And  rudely  comes  the  wintry  air, 
Press  in  thy  light  and  straining  form 
Those  slender  fingers  scft  and  warm  ; 

And,  as  the  fine-traced  veins  wuthin 
Quicken  their  bright  and  rosy  flow, 

And  gratefully  the  dewy  skin 
Clings  to  the  form  that  warms  it  so, 

Tell  her  my  heart  is  hiding  there, 
Trembling  to  be  so  closely  prest, 

Yet  feels  how  brief  its  moments  are, 
And  saddens  even  to  be  blest — 
Fated  to  serve  her  for  a  day, 
And  then,  like  thee,  be  flung  awayP 


PART   n. 

LATER   DAYS. 

OH, 

SKETCHES  OF  PERSONS  AND  SCENES  OF  HIGH  LIFE  IN 
EUROPE. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  HEART-BOOK  OF  ERNEST  CLAY. 

CHAPTER   I. 

In  a  small  room,  second  floor,  front,  No.  —  South  Audley 
street,  Grosvenor  square,  on  one  of  the  latter  days  of  May,  five 
or  six  years  ago,  there  stood  an  inkstand,  of  which  you  may  buy 
the  like  for  three  halfpence,  in  most  small  shops  in  Soho.  It 
was  stuck  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  like  the  largest  of  the 
Azores  on  a  schoolboy's  amateur  map — a  large  blot,  surrounded 
by  innumerable  smaller  blotlings-  On  the  top  of  a  small  leather 
portmanteau  near  by,  stood  two  pair  of  varnished-leather  boots, 
of  a  sumptuous  expensiveness,  slender,  elegant,  and  without  spot, 
except  the  leaf  of  a  crushed  orange  blossom,  clinging  to  one  of 
the  heels.     Between  the  inkstand  and  the  boots,  sat  the  young 

and  then  fashionable   author  of ;  and  the  boots  and  the 

inkstand  were  tolerable  exponents  of  his  two  opposite,  but  closely 
woven  existences. 


LATER  DAYS.  227 


It  was  two  o'clock,  P.  M.,  and  the  author  was  stirring  his  tea. 
He  had  been  stirring  it  with  the  same  velocity,  three  quarters  of 
an  hour ;  for,  when  that  cup  should  be  drank,  inevitably  the  next 
thing  was,  to  write  the  first  sentence  of  an  article  for  the  New 
Month.  Mag.,  and  he  was  prolonging  his  breakfast,  as  a  criminal 
his  last  prayer. 

The  ^'  fatigued"  sugar  and  milk  were  still  flying  round  the  edge 
of  the  cup  in  a  whity  blue  concave,  when  the  *'  maid  of  all  work" 
of  his  landlord  the  baker,  knocked  at  the  door  with  a  note. 

"  13  G- M street. 

"  Dear  Sir  : 
"  Has  there  been  any  mistake  in  the  two-penny  post  delivery, 
tliat  I  have  not  received  your  article  for  this  month }     If  so, 
please  send  me  the  rough  draught  by  the  bearer  (who  waits),  and 
the  compositors  will  try  to  make  it  out.     Yours,  truly, 


"  P.  S. — If  the  tale  is  not  finished,  please  send  me  the  title 
and  motto,  that  we  may  print  the  *  contents'  during  the  delay." 

The  tea,  which,  for  some  minutes,  had  turned  off  a  decreasing 
ripple  from  the  edge  of  the  arrested  spoon,  came  to  a  standstill, 
at  the  same  moment,  with  the  author's  wits.  He  had  seized  his 
pen,  and  commenced  : — 

"Dear  Sir: 

"  The  tale  of  this  month  will  be  called — " 

As  it  was  not  yet  conceived,  he  found  a  difficulty  in  baptizing 
it.  His  eyebrows  descended,  like  the  bars  of  a  knight's  visor  ; 
his  mouth,  which  had  expressed  only  lassitude  and  melancholy, 
shut  close,  and  curved  downward,  and  he  sat  for  some  minutes 


>28  AN  ELOPEMENT. 


dipping  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and,  at  each  dip,  adding  a  new  shoal 
to  the  banks  of  the  inky  Azores. 

A  long  sigh  of  relief,  and  an  expansion  of  every  line  of  his 
face  into  a  look  of  brightaning  thought,  gave  token,  presently,  that 
the  incubation  had  been  successful.  The  gilded  note-paper  was 
pushed  aside,  a  broad  and  fair  sheet  of  "  foreign  post,"  was 
hastily  drawn  from  his  blotting-book,  and,  forgetful  alike  of  the 
unachieved  cup  of  tea,  and  the  waiting  ''  devil"  of  Marlborough 
street,  the  felicitous  author  dashed  the  first  magic  word  on  mid- 
page,  and,  without  title  or  motto,  traced  rapidly  line  after  line, 
his  face  clearing  of  lassitude,  and  his  eyes  of  their  troubled  lan- 
guor, as  the  erasures  became  fewer,  and  his  punctuations  farther 
between. 

"  Any  answer  to  the  note,  sir  ?"  said  the  maid-servant,  who 
had  entered  unnoticed,  and  stood  close  at  his  elbow,  wondering  at 
the  flying  velocity  of  his  pen. 

He  was  at  the  bottom  of  tlie  fourth  page,  and  in  the  middle 
of  a  sentence.  Handing  the  wet  and  blotted  sheet  to  the  servant, 
with  an  order  for  the  messeno-er  to  call  the  followincr  mornino;  for 
the  remainder,  he  threw  down  his  pen,  and  abandoned  himself  to 
the  most  delicious  of  an  author's  j)leasures — revery  in  the  mood 
of  composition.  He  forgot  work.  Work  is  to  put  such  reveries 
into  words.  His  imagination  flew  on  like  a  horse  without  a  rider 
— gloriously  and  exultingly,  but  to  no  goal.  The  very  waste  made 
his  indolence  sweeter — the  very  nearness  of  his  task,  brightened 
his  imaginative  idleness.  The  ink  dried  upon  his  pen.  Some 
capricious  association  soon  drew  back  his  thoughts  to  himself. 
His  eye  dulled.  His  lips  resumed  their  ningled  expression  of 
pride  and  voluptuousness.  He  started  to  find  himself  idle,  re- 
membered that  he  had  sent  off  the  sheet  with  a  broken  sentence 


LATER  DAYS.  229 


ivitliout  retaining  even  the  concluding  word,  and,  with  a  sigh  more 
of  relief  than  vexation,  he  drew  on  his  hoots.  Presto  ! — the 
world  of  which  his  penny-half-penny  inkstand  was  the  immor- 
tal centre — the  world  of  heaven-born  imagination — melted  from 
about  him  !  He  stood  in  patent  leather — human,  handsome,  and 
liable  to  debt  ! 

And  thus  fugitive  and  easy  of  decoy — thus  compulsory,  irre- 
solute, and  brief,  is  the  unchastised  toil  of  genius — the  earning 
of  the  "  fancy-bread"  of  poets ! 

It  would  be  hard  if  a  man  who  has  ^' made  himself  a  name," 
(beside  being  paternally  christened,)  should  want  one  in  a  story 
— so,  if  you  please,  I  will  name  my  hero  in  the  next  sentence. 
Ernest  Clay  was  dressed  to  walk  to  Marlborough  street — to  apply 
for  his  "guinea-a-page"  in  advance,  and  find  out  the  concluding 
word  of  his  MS. — when  there  was  heard  a  footman's  rap  at  the 
street  door.  The  baker  on  the  ground  floor  ran  to  pick  up  his 
penny  loaves,  jarred  from  the  shelves  by  the  tremendous  rat-a-tat- 
tat,  and  the  maid  ran  herself  out  of  her  shoes,  to  inform  Mr. 

Clay  that  Lady  Mildred wished  to  speak  with  him.     Neither 

maid  nor  baker  were  displeased  at  being  put  to  inconvenience, 
nor  was  the  baker's  hysterical  mother  disposed  to  murmur  at 
the  outrageous  clatter  which  shattered  her  nerves  for  a  week. 
There  is  a  spell,  to  a  Londoner,  in  a  coronetted  carriage,  which 
changes  the  noise  and  impudence  of  the  unwhipped  varlets  who 
ride  behind  it,  into  music  and  condescension. 

"  You  were  going  out,"  said  Lady  Mildred  ;  '^  can  I  take  you 
anywhere  ?" 

"  You  can  take  me,"  said  Clay,  spreading  out  his  hands  in  an 
attitude  of  surrender,  "  when  and  where  you  please  ;  but  I  was 
going  to  my  publisher's." 


230  LOVE,  OR  PASSION? 


The  cliariot-steps  rattled  down,  and  liis  foot  was  on  the  crim- 
son carpet,  wlien  a  plain  family  carriage  suddenly  turned  out  of 
Grosvenor  square,  and  pulled  up,  as  near  his  own  door  as  the  ob- 
struction permitted. 

Ernest  changed  color  slightly,  and  Lady  Mildred,  after  a 
glance  through  the  window  behind  her,  stamped  her  little  foot, 
and  said,  "  Come  !" 

"  One  moment !"  was  his  insufficient  apology,  as  he  sprang  to 
the  window  of  the.  other  carriage,  and,  with  a  manner  almost  in- 
fantine in  its  cordial  simplicity,  expressed  his  delight  at  meeting 
the  two  ladies  who  sat  within. 

"  Have  you  set  up  a  chariot,  Ernest  ?"  said  the  younger,  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  the  dark  mass  of  curls  on  his  temple,  and 
pushing  his  head  gently  back,  that  she  might  see  what  equipage 
stopped  the  way. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  but  there  was  no  escape  from  the 
truth. 

"  It  is  Lady  Mildred,  who  has  just — " 

"  Is  she  alone .?" 

The  question  was  asked  by  the  elder  lady,  with  a  look  that  ex- 
pressed a  painfully  sad  wish  to  hear  him  answer,  ^'  No." 

While  he  hesitated,  the  more  forgiving  voice  nest  him  hm-ried- 
ly  broke  the  silence. 

"  We  are  forgetting  our  errand,  Ernest.  Can  you  come  to 
Ashurst  to-morrow  .^" 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  Do  not  fail !  My  uncle  wishes  to  see  you.  Stay — ^I  have 
brought  you  a  note  from  him.  Good-bye  !  Are  you  going  to  the 
rout  at  Mrs.  Rothschild's  to-night .?" 

"  I  VMS  not — but,  if  yon  arc  going,  I  will." 


LATER  DAYS.  331 


"Till  this  evening,  then  r" 

The  heavy  vehicle  rolled  away,  and  Ernest  crushed  the  noto 
in  his  hand  unread,  and,  with  a  slower  step  than  suited  the  im- 
patience of  Lady  Mildred,  returned  to  the  chariot.  The  coach- 
man, with  that  mysterious  instinct  that  coachmen  have,  let  fall 
his  silk  upon  the  backs  of  his  spirited  horses,  and  drove  in  time 
with  his  master's  quickened  pulses  ;  and,  at  the  corner  of  Chester- 
field street,  as  the  family  carriage  rolled  slowly  on  its  way  to 
Howell  and  James's,  (on  an  errand  connected  with  bridal 
pearls),  the  lofty-stepping  bays  of  Lady  IMildred  dashed  by,  as 
if  all  the  anger  and  scorn  of  a  whole  descent  of  coronets  were 
breathing  from  their  arched  nostrils. 

What  a  boon,  from  nature  to  aristocracy,  was  the  pride  of  the 
horse  ! 

Lady  Mildred  was  a  widow,  of  two  years'  weeds,  thirty-two, 
and  of  a  certain  kind  of  talent,  which  will  be  explained  in  the 
course  of  this  story.  She  had  no  personal  charms,  except  such 
as  are  indispensably  necessary  to  lady-likeness — indispensably 
necessary,  for  that  very  reason,  to  any  control  over  the  fancy  of  a 
man  of  imagination.  Her  upper  lip  was  short  enough  to  express 
scorn,  and  her  feet  and  hands  were  exquisitely  small.  Some 
men  of  fancy  would  exact  these  attractions,  and  a  great  many 
more.  But,  without  these,  no  woman  ever  secured  even  the 
most  transient  homage  of  a  poet.  She  had  one  of  those  faces 
you  never  find  yourself  at  leisure  to  criticise,  or,  rather,  she  had 
one  of  those  syren  voices,  that,  if  you  heard  her  speak  before  you 
had  found  leisure  to  look  at  her  features,  you  had  lost  your  op- 
portunity forever.  Her  voice  expressed  the  presence  of  beauty, 
ag  much  as  a  carol  in  a  tree  expresses  th«  pres€De«  of  a  bird ; 


232  PORTRAIT  WORTH  YOUR  STUDY. 


and,  though  you  saw  not  the  beauty,  as  you  may  not  see  the  bird, 
it  was  impossible  to  doubt  it  was  there.  Yet,  with  all  this  en- 
chantment in  her  voice,  it  was  the  most  changeable  music  on 
earth  ;  for,  hear  it  when  you  would,  if  she  were  in  earnest,  you 
might  be  sure  it  was  the  softened  echo  of  the  voice  to  which  she 
vras  replying.  She  never  spoke  first.  She  never  led  the  conver- 
sation. She  had  not  (or  never  used)  the  talent  which  many  very 
common-place  women  have,  of  giving  a  direction  to  the  feelings, 
and  controlling  even  the  course  of  thought,  of  superior  men  who 
may  admire  them.  In  everything  she  ]played  a  second.  She  was 
sil&nt  through  all  your  greetings — through  all  your  compliments  ; 
smiled  and  listened,  if  it  were  for  hours,  till  your  lighter  spirits 
were  exhaused,  and  3^ou  came  down  to  the  true  under-tone  of 
your  heart  ;  and,  by  the  first-struck  chord  of  feeling  and  earnest, 
(and  her  skill  in  detecting  it  was  an  infallible  instinct,)  she  modu- 
lated her  voice,  and  took  up  the  strain ;  and,  from  the  echo  of 
your  own  soul,  and  the  flow  of  the  most  throbbing  vein  in  your 
own  heart,  she  drew  your  enchantment  and  intoxication.  Her 
manners  were  a  necessary  part  of  such  a  character.  Her 
limbs  seemed  al Trays  enchanted  into  stillness.  "When  you  gazed 
at  her  more  earnestlj'-,  her  eyes  gradually  drooped  ;  and  again, 
her  enlarged  orbs  brightened  and  grew  eager,  as  your  gaze  re- 
treated. With  her  slight  forefinger  laid  upon  her  cheek,  and  her 
gloved  hand  supporting  her  arm,  she  sat  stirless  and  rapt ;  and,  by 
an  indescribable  magnetism,  you  felt  that  there  was  not  a  nerve 
in  your  eye,  nor  a  flutter  toward  change  in  the  expression  of  your 
face,  that  was  not  linked  to  hers,  nerve  for  nerve,  pulsation  for 
pulsation.  Whether  this  charm  would  work  on  common  men,  it 
is  difficult  to  say  ;  for  Lady  Mildred's  passions  were  invariably 
men  of  genius 


LATER  DAYS.  53:^ 


You  may  not  have  seen  such  a  woman  as  Lady  Mildred — but 
you  have  seen  girls  like  Eve  Gore.  There  are  many  lilies, 
though  each  one,  new-found,  seems  to  the  finder  the  miracle  of 
nature.  She  was  a  pure,  serene-hearted,  and  very  beautiful  girl, 
of  seventeen.  Her  life  had  been,  hitherto,  the  growth  of  love 
and  care,  as  the  lily  she  resembled  is  the  growth  of  sunshine  and 
dew ;  and,  flower-iike,  all  she  had  ever  known,  or  felt,  had  turned 
to  spotless  loveliness.  She  had  met  the  gifted  author  of  her 
favorite  romance,  at  a  country  house  where  they  were  guests  to- 
gether ;  and  1  could  not,  short  of  a  chapter  of  metaphysics,  tell 
you  how  natural  it  was  for  these  two  apparently  uncongenial  per- 
sons to  mingle,  like  drops  of  dew.  I  will  merely  say  now,  that, 
etrongly-marked  as  seems  the  character  of  every  man  of  genius? 
his  very  capability  of  tracking  the  mazes  of  human  nature  makes 
him  the  very  chameleon  and  Proteus  of  his  species,  and  that, 
after  he  has  assimilated  himself,  by  turns,  to  every  variety  of 
mankind,  his  masks  never  fall  off  without  disclosing  the  very 
soul  and  type  of  the  most  infantine  simplicity.  Other  men's 
disguises,  too,  become  a  second  nature.  Those  of  genius  are 
worn,  to  their  last  day,  as  loosely  as  the  mantles  of  the  gods. 

The  kind  of  man  called  "  a  penetrating  observer,"  if  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  Mr.  Clay  in  London  circles,  and 

had  afterward  seen  him   rambling  through  the  woods  of 

Park  with  Eve  Gore,  natural,  playful  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
sad,  his  manner  the  reflex  of  hers,  even  his  voice  almost  as  femi- 
nine as  hers,  in  his  fine  sympathy  with  her  character  and  attrac- 
tions— one  of  these  shrewd  people,  I  say,  would  have  shaken  his 
head,  and  whispered,  "  Poor  gii-1,  how  little  she  understands 
him  !''  But,  of  all  the  wise  and  worldly,  gentle  and  simple,  who 
had  ever  crossed  the  path  of  Ernest  Clay,  this  same  child-like 


234  PAY  FOR  GENIUS. 


girl  was  the  only  creature  to  whom  he  appeared  utterly  himself, 
— for  whom  he  wore  no  disguise — to  whose  plummet  of  simple 
truth  he  opened  the  seldom-sounded  depths  of  his  prodigal  and 
passionate  heart.  Lady  Mildred  knew  his  weaknesses  and  his 
genius.  Eve  Gore  knew  his  better  and  brighter  nature.  And 
both  loved  him. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  having  drawn  you  the  portraits  of  my 
two  heroines,  I  shall  go  on,  with  a  disembarrassed  narrative,  to 
&e  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Lady  Mildred's  bays  pranced  proudly  up  Bond  street,  and 
kept  on  their  way  to  the  publisher's,  at  whose  door  they  fretted 
and  champed  the  bit — they  and  their  high-born  mistress  in  attend- 
ance upon  the  poor  author,  who,  in  this  moment  of  despondency, 
complained  of  the  misappreciation  of  the  world !  Of  the  scores 
of  people  who  knew  him  and  his  companion  as  London  celebrities, 
and  who  followed  the  showy  equipage  with  their  eyes,  how  many, 
think  you,  looked  on  Mr.  Ernest  Clay  as  a  misappreciatcd  man  .'* 
How  many,  had  they  known  that  the  whole  errand,  of  this  expen- 
sive turn-out,  was  to  call  on  the  publisher  for  the  price  of  a  single 
magazine  paper,  would  have  reckoned  those  sixteen  guineas  with 
the  chariot  of  a  noble  lady  to  come  for  the  payment }  Five  hundred 
pounds  for  your  romance,  and  a  welcome  to  all  the  best  houses 
and  costliest  entertainments  of  England — a  hundred  pounds  for 
your  poem,  aind  the  attention  of  a  thousand  eager  admirers — these 
are  some  of  the  "  lengthening  shadows"  to  the  author's  profits, 
which  the  author  does  not  reckon,  but  which  the  world  does.  To 
the  rest  of  mankind  these  are  "  chattels,"  priced  and  paid  for. 


LATER  DAYS.  235 

Twenty  thousand  a  year  would  hardly  buy,  for  Mr.  Clay,  simple 
and  uncelebrated,  what  Mr.  Clay,  author,  etc.,  has  freely  with 
five  hundred.  To  whose  credit  shall  the  remaining  nineteen 
thousand  five  hundred  be  set  down  ?  Common  people  who  pay 
for  these  things  are  not  believers  in  fairy  gifts.  They  see  the 
author  in  a  station  of  society  unattainable  except  by  the  wealthiest 
and  best  born,  with  all,  that  profuse  wealth  could  purchase,  as 
completely  at  his  service,  as  if  the  bills  of  cost  were  to  be  brought 
in  to  him  at  Christmas  ;  and  besides  all  this,  (once  more  "  into  the 
bargain,")  caressed  and  flattered,  as  no  "  golden  dulness"  ever 
was  or  could  be.  To  rate  the  revenues  of  such  a  pampered  idol 
of  fortune,  what  man  in  his  senses  would  inquire  merely  into  the 
profits  of  his  book  .'' 

And  in  this  lies  the  whole  secret  of  the  envy  and  malice  which 
is  the  peculiar  inheritance  of  genius.  Generous-minded  men,  all 
women,  the  great  and  rich  who  are  too  high  themselves  to  feel 
envy,  and  the  poor  and  humble  who  are  too  low  to  feel  aught  but 
wonder  and  grateful  admiration — these  are  the  fosterers  and  flat- 
terers, the  paymasters  of  the  real  wealth,  and  the  receivers  of  the 
choicest  fruits,  of  genius.  The  aspiring  mediocrity,  the  slighted 
and  eclipsed  pretenders  to  genius,  are  a  large  class,  to  whose  eyes 
all  brightness  is  black,  and  the  great  mass  of  men  toil  their  lives 
and  utmost  energies  away,  for  the  hundreth  part  of  what  the  child 
of  genius  wins  by  his  unseen  pen — by  the  toil  which  neither 
hardens  his  hands,  nor  trenches  on  his  hours  of  pleasure.  They 
see  a  man  no  comelier  nor  better  born  than  they — idle,  apparently, 
as  the  most  spoilt  minion  of  wealth — vying  with  the  best  born  in 
the  favor  of  beautiful  and  proud  women,  using  all  the  goods  of 
fortune  with  a  profuse  carelessness,  which  the  possession  of  the 
lamp   of  Aladdin  could  not  more  than  inspire — and  by  bitter 


236  ENVY  THE  TWENTIETH. 

criticism,  ^y  ingenious  slander,  by  continual  depreciation,  ridicule, 
and  exaggeration  of  every  petty  foible,  they  attempt  to  level  the 
inequalities  of  fortune,  and  repair  the  flagrant  injustice  of  the  blind 
goddess  to  themselves.  Upon  the  class,  generally,  they  are 
avenged.  Their  malice  poisons  the  joy  and  cripples  the  fine- 
winged  fancy  of  nineteen  in  the  score.  But  the  twentieth  is  born 
proud  and  elastic,  and  the  shaft  his  scorn  does  not  fling  back,  his 
light-heartedness  eludes,  and  his  is  the  destiny  which^  more  than 
that  of  kings  or  saints,  proves  the  v/ide  inequality  in  human  lot. 

I  trust,  dear  reader,  that  you  have  been  more  amused  than  Lady 
Mildred,  at  this  half  hour's  delay  at  the  publisher's.  While  I  have 
been  condensing  into  a  theory  my  scattered  observations  of  Lon- 
don authors,  her  ladyship  has  been  musing  upon  the  apparition  of 
the  family  carriage  of  the  Gores  at  Mr.  Clay's  lodgings.  Lady 
Mildred's  position  in  society,  though  she  had  the  entree  to  all  the 
best  houses  in  London,  precluded  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
any  unmarried  girl ;  but  she  had  seen  Eve  Gore,  and  knew  and 
dreaded  her  loveliness,  A  match  of  mere  interest  would  have 
giv-en  her  no  uneasiness,  but  she  could  see  far  enough  into  the 
nature  of  this  beautiful  and  fresh-hearted  girl,  to  know  that  hers 
would  be  no  divided  empire.  All  women  are  conscious  that  a 
single-minded,  concentrated,  pure  affection,  melting  the  whole 
character  into  the  heart,  is  omnipotent  in  perpetuating  fidelity. 

"  Ernest,"  said  Lady  Mildred,  as  the  chariot  sped  from  the 
publisher's  door,  and  took  its  way  to  the  Park,  ''''  you  are  grown 
ceremonious.  Am  I  so  new  a  friend,  that  you  cannot  open  a  note 
in  my  presence  .^" 

Clay  placed  the  crushed  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  I  will  have  no  secrets  from  you,  dear  Lady  Mildred.  There 
is  probably  much  in  that  note  that  will  surprise  you.     Break  the 


LATER  DAYS.  237 


seal,  however,  and  give  me  your  advice.     I  will  not  promise  to 
follow  it." 

The  blood  flushed  to  the  temples  of  Lady  Mildred  as  she  read, 
but  her  lips,  though  pale  and  trembling,  were  compressed,  by  a 
strong  eflfort  of  self-control.  She  turned  back,  and  read  the  note 
again,  in  a  murmuring  undertone  : — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Clay  :  From  causes  which  you  will  probably 
understand,  I  have  been  induced  to  reconsider  your  proposal  of 
marriage  to  my  niece.  Imprudent  as  I  must  still  consider  your 
union,  I  find  myself  in  such  a  situation  that,  should  you  persevere, 
I  must  decide  in  its  favor,  as  the  least  of  two  evils.  You  will 
forgive  my  anxious  care,  however,  if  I  exact  of  you,  before  taking 
any  decided  step,  a  full  and  fair  statement  of  your  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments, (which  I  understand  are  considerable,)  and  your 
present  income  and  prospects.  I  think  it  proper  to  inform  you, 
that  Miss  Gore's  expectations,  beyond  an  annuity  of  £300  a  year, 
are  very  distant,  and  that  nil  your  calculations  should  be  confined 
to  that  amount.  With  this  understanding,  I  should  be  pleased  to 
see  you  at  Ashurst  to-morrow  morning.     Yours,  truly, 

"  Thomas  Gore." 

"  Hear  me,  before  you  condemn,  dear  Lady  Mildred,"  passion- 
ately exclaimed  Ernest,  as  she  clasped  her  hands  over  the  letter, 
and  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  them  :  "  I  was  wrong  to  leave  the 
discovery  of  this  to  chance — I  should  have  dealt  more  frankly 
with  you — indeed,  if  I  had  had  the  opportunity — " 

Lady  Mildred  looked  up,  as  if  to  reproach  him  for  the  evasion 
half  uttered, 

"  I  have  seen  you  daily,  it  is  true,  but  every  hour  is  not  an 
hour  for  confession  like  this,  and,  besides,  my  new  love  was  a  sur- 


238  ANALYSIS  OF  PASSION. 

prise,  and  what  I  have  to  confess  is  a  change  in  my  feelings  still 
more  recent — a  constantly  brightening  vision  of  a  life  (pardon  me, 
Lady  Mildred !)  deeper,  a  thousand  fold,  and  a  thousand  times 
sweeter  and  more  engrossing  than  ours." 

"  You  are  frank,"  said  his  pale  listener,  who  had  recovered  her 
self-possession,  and  seemed  bent  now,  as  usual,  only  on  listening 
and  entering  into  his  feelings 

"  I  would  be  so,  indeed,"  he  resumed  ;  "but  I  have  not  yet 
come  to  my  confession.  Life  is  too  short,  Lady  Mildred,  and 
youth  too  vanishing,  to  waste  feeling  on  delusion." 

''  Such  as  your  love,  do  you  mean,  Ernest  ?" 

"  Pardon  me  !     Were  you  my  wife " 

Lady  Mildred  made  a  slight  motion  of  impatience  with  her 
hand,  and  unconsciously  raised  the  expressive  arching  of  her  lip. 

"  I  must  name  this  forbidden  subject  to  be  understood.  See 
what  a  false  positi(rn  is  miri'.'  !  You  are  too  proud  to  marry,  but 
have  not  escaped  Ir/ing  nvi  ;  and  you  wish  me  to  be  contented 
with  a  perfume  on  th  j  breeze — to  feel  a  property  in  a  bird  in  the 
sky.  It  was  very  sweet  to  begin  to  love  you,  to  win  and  win,  step 
by  step,  to  have  food  for  hope  in  what  was  refused  me.  But  I 
am  checked,  and  you  are  still  free.  I  stand  at  an  impassable  bar- 
rier, and  you  demand  that  I  should  feel  united  to  you." 

"  You  are  ungrateful,  Ernest  !" 

"  If  I  were  your  slave,  I  am,  for  you  load  me  with  favors — but 
as  your  lover,  no  !  It  does  not  fill  my  heart  to  open  your  house 
to  me  ;  to  devote  to  me  your  dining  hours,  your  horses,  and  ser- 
vants ;  to  let  the  world  know  that  you  love  me  ;  to  make  me  your 
romance — ^yet  have  all  the  common  interests  of  life  apart,  have  a 
station  in  society  apart,  an  ambition  not  mine,  a  name  not  mine, 
a  hearth  not  mine.     You  share  my  wild  passions,  and  my  fash- 


LATER  DAYS.  ^39 


ionable  negations,  not  my  homely  feelings  and  everyday  sorrows. 
I  have  a  whole  existence  into  whicA  you  never  enter.  I  am  some- 
thing besides  a  fashionable  author — but  not  to  you.  I  have  a 
common  human  heart — a  pillow  upon  which  lies  down  no  fancy — 
a  morning  which  is  not  spent  in  sleep  or  listlessness,  but  in  the 
earning  of  my  bread — I  have  dulness,  and  taciturnity,  and  caprice 
— and  in  all  these  you  have  no  share.  I  am  a  butterfly  and  an 
earth-worm,  by  turns,  and  you  know  me  only  on  the  wing.  You 
do  not  answer  me  !" 

Lady  Mildred,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  an  admirer  of  genius, 
and,  though  Ernest  was  excusing  an  infidelity  to  herself,  the  novelty 
of  iis  distinctions  opened  to  her  a  new  chapter  in  the  book  of  love, 
and  she  was  interested  far  beyond  resentment.  He  was  talking 
from  his  heart,  too,  and  every  one  who  has  listened  to  a  murmur 
of  affection,  knows  what  sweetness  the  breathings  of  those  deeper 
veins  of  feeling  infuse  into  the  voice.  To  a  palled  Sybarite  like 
Lady  Mildred,  there  was  a  wild-flower  freshness  in  all  this  that 
was  irresistibly  captivating.  A  smile  stole  through  her  lips,  in- 
stead of  the  reproach  and  anger  that  he  expected. 

"  I  do  not  answer  you,  my  dear  Ernest,  for  the  same  reason  I 
would  not  tear  a  leaf  out  of  one  of  your  books  unread.  I  quite 
enter  into  your  feelings.  I  wish  I  could  hear  you  talk  of  them, 
hours  longer.  Their  simplicity  and  truth  enchant  me,  but  I  con- 
fess I  cannot  see  what  you  propose  to  yourself.  Do  you  think  to 
reconcile  and  blend  all  these  contradictory  moods  by  an  imprudent 
marriage  }  Or  do  you  mean  to  vow  your  butterfly  to  celibacy, 
and  marry  your  worm-fly  alone,  and  grovel  in  sympathy  rathei 
than  take  love  with  you  when  you  soar,  and  keep  your  groyelling 
to  yourself." 

"  I  think  Eve  Gore  would  love  me,  soaring  or  creepmg,  Lady 


240         POVERTY,  AS  FASHION  SEES  IT. 


Mildred  !  She  would  be  happier  sitting  by  my  table  while  I  wrote, 
than  driving  in  this  gay  crowd  with  her  chariot.  She  would  lose 
the  light  of  her  life  in  absence  from  me,  like  a  cloud  receding 
from  the  moon,  whatever  stars  sparkled  around  her.  She  would 
be  with  me  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  the  night,  sharing  every 
thought  that  could  spring  to  my  lips,  and  reflecting  my  own  soul 
for  ever.  You  will  forgive  me  for  finding  out  this  want,  this  void, 
while  you  loved  me.  But  I  have  felt  it  sickeningly  in  your  bright 
rooms — with  music  and  perfume,  and  the  touch  of  your  hand  all 
conspiring  to  enchant  me.  In  the  very  hours  when  most  men  on 
earth  would  have  envied  me,  I  have  felt  the  humbler  chambers  of 
jiiy  heart  ache  with  loneliness.  I  have  longed  for  some  still  and 
dark  retreat,  where  the  beating  of  my  pulse  would  be  protestation 
enough,  and  where  she  who  loved  me  was  blest  to  overflowing  with 
my  presence  only.  Afi'ection  is  a  glow-worm  light,  dear  Lady 
Mildred  !     It  pales  amid  splendor." 

"  But  you  should  have  a  glow-worm's  habits  to  relish  it,  my 
dear  poet.  You  cannot  live  on  a  blade  of  grass,  nor  shine  brightest 
out  of  doors  in  the  rain.  Let  us  look  at  it  without  these  Claude 
Lorraine  glasses,  and  see  the  truth.  Mr.  Thomas  Gore  ofiers 
you  £300  a  year  with  his  niece.  Your  own  income,  the  moment 
you  marry,  is  converted  from  pocket-money  into  subsistence — 
from  the  purchase  of  gloves  and  Hungary  water,  into  butcher's 
meat  and  groceries.  You  retire  to  a  small  house  in  one  of  the 
cheaper  streets.  You  have  been  accustomed  to  drive  out  con- 
tinually ;  and,  for  several  years,  you  have  not  only  been  free  from 
ihe  trouble  and  expence  of  your  own  dinner,  but  you  have  pam- 
pered your  taste  with  the  varied  chefs  d^cEuv7'e  of  all  the  best 
cooks  of  London.  You  dine  at  home,  now,  feeding  several 
mouths  beside  your  own,  on  what  is  called  a  family  dinner — say, 


LATER  DAYS.  241 


as  a  j^ood  specimen,  a  beefsteak  and  potatoes,  with  a  Yorkshire 
pudding.  Instead  of  retiring,  after  your  coffee,  to  a  brilliantly, 
lighted  drawing-room,  where  collision  with  some  portion  of  the 
most  gifted  society  of  London  disciplines  your  intellect,  and 
polishes  your  wit  and  fancy,  you  sit  down  by  your  wife's  work- 
table,  and  grow  sleepy  over  your  plans  of  economy,  sigh  for  the 
gay  scenes  you  once  moved  in,  and  go  to  bed  to  be  rid  of  your 
regrets.'* 

"  But  why  should  I  be  exiled  from  society,  my  dear  Lady  Mil- 
dred ?  What  circle  in  London  would  not  take  a  new  grace  from 
the  presence  of  such  a  woman  as  Eve  Gore  .^" 

"  Oh,  marvellous  simplicity !  If  men  kept  the  gates  of 
society,  a  la  bonne  heurz  ! — for  then  a  party  would  consist  of  one 
man  (the  host),  and  a  hundred  pretty  women.  But  the  "  free 
list"  of  society,  you  know,  as  well  as  I,  my  love-blind  friend,  is 
exclusively  masculine.  Woman  keeps  the  door,  and,  easy  as  turns 
the  hinge  to  the  other  sex,  it  swings  reluctant  to  her  own.  You 
may  name  a  hundred  men  in  your  circle,  whose  return  for  the 
hospitality  of  fashionable  houses  it  would  be  impossible  to  guess 
at,  but  you  cannot  point  me  out  one  married  woman,  whose  price 
of  admission  is  not  as  well  known,  and  as  rightly  exacted,  as  the 
cost  of  an  opera-box.  Those  who  do  not  give  sumptuous  parties 
in  their  turn,  (and  even  these  must  be  well  bred  and  born 
people,)  are,  in  the  first  place,  very  ornamental ;  but,  besides 
being  pretty,  they  must  either  sing  or  flirt.  There  are  but  two 
classes  of  women  in  fashionable  society — the  leaders  or  party- 
givers,  and  the  decoys  to  young  men.     There  is  the  pretty  Mrs. 

,  for  example,  whose  habitation  nobody  knows,  but  as  a  card 

with  an  address  ;  and  why  is  she  everywhere  }  Simply,  because 
she  draws  four  or  five  fashionable  young  men,  who  would  find  no 
U 


>42  COST  OF  FASHION  WITH  A  WIFE. 


inducement  to  come,  if  she  were  not  there.     Then  there  is  Mrs. 

,  who  sings  enchantingly,  and  Mrs. ,  who  is  pretty,  and 

a  linguist,  and  entertains  stupid  foreigners,  and  Mrs. ,  who 

is  clever  at  charades^  and  plays  quadrilles  ;  and  what  would  Mrs. 
Clay  do  }     Is  she  musical  V 

"She  is  beautiful!" 

"  Well — she  must  flirt.  With  three  or  four  fashionable 
lovers — " 

"Lady  Mildred!" 

"  Pardon  me,  I  was  thinking  aloud.  AVell — I  will  suppose 
you  an  exception  to  this  Medc-and-Persian  law  of  the  heau  monde, 
and  allow,  for  a  moment,  that  Mrs.  Clay,  with  an  income  of  five 
or  six  hundred  a  year,  with  no  eyes  for  anybody  but  her  husband, 
poor,  pretty,  and  innocent,  (what  a  marvel  it  would  be  in  May 
Fair,  by-thc-way  !),  becomes  as  indispensable  to  a,  partie  Ji^ie  as 
was  Mr.  Clay  while  in  unmarried  celebrity.  Mind,  I  am  not 
talking  of  routs  and  balls,  where  anybody  can  go  because  there 
must  bo  a  crowd,  but  of  2>clUs  soiifcrSj  select  dinners,  and  enter- 
tainments where  every  guest  is  invited  as  an  ingredient  to  a  well- 
studied  cup  of  pleasure.  I  will  suppose,  for  an  instant,  that  a 
connubial  and  happy  pair  could  be  desirable  in  such  circles. 
What  part  of  your  income,  of  five  or  six  hundred  a  year,  do  you 
suppose,  would  dress  and  jewel  your  wife,  keep  carriage  and  ser- 
vants, and  pay  for  your  concert-tickets  and  opera-boxes — all  ab- 
solutely indispensable  to  people  who  go  out  ?  Why,  my  dear 
Ernest,  your  whole  income  would  not  suffice  for, the  half.  You 
must  '  live  shy,'  go  about  in  hackney-coaches,  dress  economically, 
(which  is  execrable  in  a  woman,)  and  endure  the  neglects  and 
mortifications  which  our  pampered  servants  inevitably  inflict  on 
shabby  people.     Your  life  would  bo  one  succession  of  bitter  mor- 


LATER  DAYS.  243 


tifications,  difficulties,  and  heart-burnings.  Believe  me,  there  is 
no  creature  on  earth  so  exquisitely  wretched,  as  a  man  with  a 
fashionable  wife  and  small  means." 

Lady  IVIildred  had  been  too  much  accustomed  to  the  manage- 
ment of  men,  not  to  leave  Ernest,  after  this  homily,  to  his  own 
thoughts.  A  woman  of  less  knowledge  and  tact  would  have  fol- 
lowed up  this  argument  with  an  appeal  to  his  feelings.  But,  be- 
side that  she  wished  the  seed  she  had  thus  thrown  into  his  mind 
to  germinate  with  thought,  she  knew  that  it  was  a  wise  principle 
in  the  art  of  love  to  be  cold  by  daylight.  Ernest  sat  silent,  with 
his  eyes  cast  musingly  down  to  the  corner  of  the  chariot,  where 
the  smallest  foot  and  prettiest  chaussure  conceivable  was  playing 
with  the  tassel  of  the  window-pull ;  and,  reserving  her  more  effec- 
tive game  of  feeling  for  the  evening,  when  they  were  to  meet  at 

Mrs.  Pi 's,  she  set  him  down  at  his  clubhouse  with  a  calm  and 

cold  adieu,  and  drove  home  to  bathe,  dine  alone,  sleep,  and  re- 
fresh body  and  spirit  for  the  struggle  against  love  and  Eve  Gore. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Genius  is  lord  of  the  world.  Men  labor  at  the  foundation  of 
society,  while  the  lowly  lark,  unseen  and  little  prized,  sits,  hard 
by,  in  his  nest  on  the  earth,  gathering  strength  to  bear  his  song 
up  to  the  sun.  Slowly  rise  basement  and  monumental  aisle, 
column  and  architrave,  dome  and  lofty  tower  ;  and  when  the  cloud- 
piercing  spire  is  burnished  with  gold,  and  the  fabric  stands  perfect 
and  wondrous,  up  springs  the  forgotten  lark,  with  airy  wheel  to 
the  pinnacle,  and,  standing  poised  and  un wondering  on  his  giddy 
perch,  he  pours  out  his  celestial  music  till  his  bright  footing 
trembles  with  harmony.     And  when  the  song  is  done,  and,  mount- 


244  WHERE  FAME  IS  FELT. 


ing  thence,  he  soars  away  to  fill  his  exhausted  heart  at  the  foun- 
tains of  the  sun,  the  dwellers  in  the  towers  below  look  up  to  the 
gilded  spire  and  shout — not  to  the  burnished  shaft,  but  to  the 
lark — lost  from  it  in  the  sky. 

"  Mr.  Clay  !"  repeated  the  last  footman  on  Mrs.  R.'s  flower- 
laden  staircase. 

I  have  let  you  down  as  gently  as  possible,  dear  reader  ;  but 
here  we  are,  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  houses  in  May  Fair, 

Pardon  me  a  moment  !  Did  I  say  1  had  let  you  down  ?  What 
pyramid  of  the  Nile  is  piled  up  like  the  gradations  between  com- 
plete insignificance  and  the  effect  of  that  footman's  announcement  ? 
On  the  heels  of  Ernest,  and  named  with  the  next  breath  of  the 
menial's  lips,  came  the  bearer  of  a  title  laden  with  the  emblazoned 
honors  of  descent.  Had  he  entered  a  hall  of  statuary,  he  could 
not  have  been  less  regarded.  All  eyes  were  on  the  pale  forehead 
and  calm  lips  that  had  entered  before  him  ;  and  the  blood  of  the 
warrior  who  made  the  name,  and  of  the  statesmen  and  nobles  who 
had  borne  it  and  the  accumulated  honors  and  renown  of  centu- 
ries of  unsullied  distinction — all  these  concentrated  glories,  in  the 
midst  of  the  most  polished  and  discriminating  circle  on  eartli, 
paled  before  the  lamp  of  yesterday,  burning  in  the  eye  of  genius. 
Where  is  distinction  felt  ?  In  secret,  amid  splendor  ?  No  !  In 
the  street  and  the  vulgar  gaze  ?  No  !  In  the  bosom  of  love  ? 
S/ie  only  remembers  it.  Where,  then,  is  the  intoxicating  cup  of 
homage — the  delirious  draught  for  which  brain,  soul,  and  nerve, 
are  tasked,  tortured,  and  spent — where  is  it  lifted  to  the  lips  .' 
The  answer  brings  me  back.  Eyes  shining  from  amid  joAvels, 
voices  softened  with  gentle  breeding,  smiles  awakening  beneath 
costly  lamps — an  atmosphere  of  perfume,  splendor,  and  courtesy 
— these  form  the  poet's  Hebe,  and  the  hero's  Ganymede.     These 


LATER  DAYS.  245 


pour,  for  AiuLitlon,  the  drauirlit  that  slakes  his  fever — these  hold 
the  cup  to  lips,  drinking  eagerly,  that  would  turn  away,  in  solitude 
from  the  ambrosia  of  the  gods  ! 

Clay's  walk  through  the  sumptuous  rooms  of  IMrs.  R was 

like  a  Roman  triumph.  He  was  borne  on  from  lip  to  lip — those 
before  him  anticipating  his  greeting,  and  those  he  left,  still  send- 
ing their  bright  and  kind  words  after  him.      lie  breathed  incense. 

Suddenly,  behind  him,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Eve  Gore  She 
was  making  the  tour  of  the  rooms  on  the  arm  of  a  friend,  and,  fol 
lowing  Ernest,  had  insensibly  tried  to  get  nearer  to  him,  and  had 
become  flushed  and  troubled  in  the  effort  They  had  never  be- 
fore met  in  a  large  party,  and  her  pride,  in  the  universal  attention 
he  attracted,  still  more  flushed  her  eyelids  and  injured  her  beauty. 
She  gave  him  her  hand  as  be  turned  ;  but  the  greeting  that 
sprang  to  her  lips  was  checked  by  a  sudden  consciousness  that 
many  eyes  were  on  her,  and  she  hesitated,  murmured  some  broken 
words,  and  was  silent.  The  immediate  attention  that  Clay  had 
given  to  her,  interrupted  at  the  same  moment  the  undertoued 
murmur  around  him,  and  there  was  a  minute's  silence,  in  which 
the  inevitable  thought  flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  had  over- 
rated her  loveliness.  Still  the  trembling  and  clinging  clasp  of  her 
hand,  and  the  appealing  earnestness  of  her  look,  told  him  what 
was  in  her  heart — and  when  was  ever  genius  ungrateful  for  love ! 
He  made  a  strong  effort  to  reason  down  his  disappointment,  and, 
had  the  embarrassed  girl  resumed  instantly  her  natural  ease  and 
playfulness,  his  sensitive  imagination  would  have  been  conijuored, 
and  its  recoil  forgotten.  But  love,  that  lends  us  words,  smiles, 
tears,  all  we  want,  in  solitude,  robs  us  in  the  gay  crowd  of  every 
thing  but  what  we  cannot  use — tears  !  As  the  man  she  worship- 
ped led  her  on  through  those  bright  rooms.  Eve  Gore,  though  she 


246  LOVE  IN  A  CROWD. 


knew  not  why,  felt  tlie  large  drops  acbe  behind  her  eyes.  She 
would  have  sobbed  if  she  had  tried  to  speak.  Clay  had  given  her 
his  arm,  and  resumed  his  banter  of  compliment  with  the  crowd, 
and  with  it  a  manner  she  had  never  before  seen.  He  had  been  a 
boy,  fresh,  frank,  ardent,  and  unsuspicious,  at  Annesley  Park. 
She  saw  him  now  in  the  cold  and  polished  armor  of  a  man  who  has 
been  wounded  as  well  as  flattered  by  the  world,  and  who  presents 
his  shield  even  to  a  smile.  Impossible  as  it  was  that  he  should 
play  the  lover  now,  she  felt  wronged  and  hurt  by  his  addressing  to 
her  the  same  tone  of  elegant  trifling  and  raillery  which  was  the  key  of 
the  conversation  around  them.  She  knew,  too,  that  she  herself 
was  appearing  to  disadvantage  ;  and,  before  a  brief  hour  had  elapsed, 
she  had  become  a  prey  to  another  feeling — that  bitter  avarice 
which  is  the  curse  of  all  afi'ection  for  the  gifted  or  the  beautiful — 
an  avarice  that  makes  every  smile,  given  back  for  admiration,  a 
gem  torn  from  us — every  word,  even  of  thanks  for  courtesy,  a 
life-drop  of  our  hearts  drank  away. 

"  The  moon  looks 
On  many  brooks, 
The  brook  can  see  ro  moon  but  this," 

contains  the  mordent  secret  of  most  hearts  vowed  to  the  love  of 
remarkable  genius  or  beauty. 

The  supper-rooms  had  been  sometime  open ;  from  these  and 
the  dancing  hall,  the  half-weary  guests  were  coming  back  to  the 
deep  fauteuils,  the  fresher  air,  and  the  graver  society  of  thss  library, 
which  had  served  as  an  apartment  of  reception.  With  a  clouded 
brow,  thoughtful  and  silent.  Eve  Gore  sat  with  her  mother  in  a 
recess  near  the  entrance,  and  Clay,  who  had  kept  near  them, 
though  their  conversation  had  long  since  languished,  stood  in  the 


LATER  DAYS.  347 


centre  of  a  small  group  of  fashionable  men,  much  more  brilliant 
and  far  louder  in  his  gaiety  than  he  would  have  been  with  a  heart 
at  ease.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  of  declining  May,  when  the 
new  foliage  of  the  season  seems  to  have  exhausted  the  air,  and, 
though  it  was  near  morning,  there  came  through  the  open  win- 
dows neither  coolness  nor  vitality.  Fans,  faded  wreaths,  and 
flushed  faces,  were  universal. 

A.  footman  stood  suddenly  in  the  vacant  door. 

"  Lady  MHdred !" 

The  announcements  had  been  over  for  hours,  and  every  eye 
was  turned  on  the  apparition  of  so  late  a  comer. 

Quietly,  but  with  a  step  as  elastic  as  the  nod  of  a  water-lily, 
Lady  Mildred  glided  into  the  room,  and  the  high  tones  and  un- 
harmonized  voices  of  the  different  groups  suddenly  ceased,  and 
were  succeeded  by  a  low  and  sustained  murmur  of  admiration.  A 
white  dress  of  faultless  freshness  of  fold,  a  snowy  turban,  from 
which  hung  on  either  temple  a  cluster  of  crimson  camelias  still 
wet  with  the  night  dew ;  long  raven  curls  of  undisturbed  grace 
falling  on  shoulders  of  that  undescribable  and  dewy  coolness 
which  follows  a  morning  bath,  giving  the  skin  the  texture  and  the 
opaque  whiteness  of  the  lily  ;  lips  and  skin  redolent  of  repose 
and  purity,  and  the  downcast  but  wakeful  eye  so  expressive  of  re- 
cent solitude,  and  so  peculiar  to  one  who  has  not  spoken  since 
she  slept — these  were  attractions,  which,  in  contrast  with  the 
paled  glories  around,  elevated  Lady  Mildred  at  once  into  the  pre- 
dominant star  of  the  night. 

"  "What  news  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  most  adorable  Venus .?" 
said  a  celebrated  artist,  standing  out  from  the  group  and  drawing 
a  line  through  the  air  with  his  finger  as  if  he  were  sketching  the 
flowing  outline  of  her  form. 


248  A  LOV'D  WOMAN  ECLIPS'D. 


Lady  Mildred  laid  her  small  band  on  Clay's,  and,  with  a  smile, 
but  no  greeting  else,  passed  on.  The  bantering  question  of  the 
great  painter  told  her  that  her  spell  worked  to  a  miracle,  and  she 
was  too  shrewd  an  enchantress  to  dissolve  it  by  the  utterance  of  a 
word.  She  glided  on  like  a  spirit  of  coolness,  calm,  silent,  and 
graceful,  and,  standing  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of  the  apart- 
ment beyond,  disappeared,  with  every  eye  fixed  on  her  vanishing 
form  in  wondering  admiration.  Purity  was  the  effect  she  had 
produced — purity  in  contrast  with  the  flowers  in  the  room — 
purity  (Ernest  Clay  felt  and  wondered  at  it),  even  in  contrast 
with  Eve  Gore  !  There  was  silence  in  the  library  for  an  instant, 
and  then,  one  by  one,  the  gay  group  around  our  hero  followed  in 
search  of  the  new  star  of  the  hour,  and  he  was  left  standing  alone. 
He  turned  to  speak  to  his  silent  friends,  but  the  manner  of  Mrs. 
Gore  was  restrained,  and  Eve  sat  pale  and  tearful  within  the  cur- 
tain of  the  recess,  and  looked  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 

"  I  should  like — I  should  like  to  go  home,  mother!"  she  said 
presently,  with  a  difficult  articulation.  "  I  think  I  am  not  well. 
Mr.  Clay — Ernest — will  see,  perhaps,  if  our  carriage  is  here." 

"  You  will  find  us  in  the  shawl-room,"  said  Mrs.  Gore,  follow- 
ing him  to  the  staii'-case,  and  looking  after  him  with  troubled 
eyes. 

The  carriage  was  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and  could  not  come  up 
for  an  hour.  Day  was  dawning,  and  Ernest  had  need  of  solitude 
and  thought.  He  crossed  to  the  park,  and  strode  off  through  the 
wet  grass,  bathing  his  forehead  with  handfuls  of  dew.  Alas  !  the 
fevered  eyes  and  pallid  lips  he  had  last  seen  were  less  in  harmony 
with  the  calm  stillness  of  the  dawn  than  the  vision  his  conscience 
whispered  him  was  charmed  for  his  destruction.  As  the  cool  air 
brought  back  his  reason,  he  remembered  Eve's  embarrassed  ad- 


LATER   DAYS.  249 


dress  and  his  wearisome  and  vain  eflforts  to  amuse  her.  He  re- 
nicmbered  her  mother's  reproving  eye,  her  own  coldcx'  utterance 
of  his  name,  and  then  in  powerful  rehef  came  up  the  pictures  he 
had  brooded  on  since  his  conversation  in  the  chariot  with  Lady 
Mildred — visions  of  self-denial  and  loss  of  caste  opposed  to  the  en- 
chantments of  passion  without  restraint  or  calculation — and  his 
head  and  heart  became  wild  with  conflicting  emotions.  One  thing 
was  certain.  He  must  decide  7iow.  He  must  speak  to  Eve 
Gore  before  parting,  and,  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  if  it  were  but  9. 
word,  there  must  be  that  which  her  love  would  interpret  as  a 
bright  promise  or  a  farewell.  He  turned  back.  At  the  gate  of 
the  park  stood  one  of  the  guilty  wanderers  of  the  streets,  who 
seized  him  by  the  sleeve  and  implored  charity. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  exclaimed  Clay,  scarce  knowing  what  he  ut- 
tered. 

"  As  good  as  she  is,"  screamed  the  woman,  pointing  to  Lady 
Mildred's  carriage,  "  only  not  so  rich  !  Oh,  we  could  change 
places,  if  all's  true." 

Ernest  stood  still,  as  if  his  better  angel  had  spoken  through 
those  painted  lips.  He  gasped  with  the  weight  that  rose  slowly 
from  his  heart ;  and,  purchasing  his  release  from  the  unfortunate 
wretch  who  had  arrested  his  steps,  he  crossed  slowly  to  the  door 
crowded  with  the  menials  of  the  gay  throng  within. 

"  Lady  Mildred's  carriage  stops  the  way  !"  shouted  a  footman, 
as  he  entered.  He  crossed  .the  hall,  and,  at  the  door  of  the  shawl- 
room  he  Avas  met  by  Lady  Mildred  herself,  descending  from  the 
hall,  surrounded  with  a  troop  of  admirers.  Clay  drew  back  to  let 
her  pass ;  but  while  he  looked  into  her  face,  it  became  radiant 
with  the  happiness  of  meeting  him,  and  the  temptation  to  join  her 
seemed  irresistible.     She  entered  the  room,  followed  by  her  gay 


250  CLOSE  COMBAT  OF  HEARTS. 


suite,  and  last  of  all  by  Ernest,  who  saw,  with  the  first  glance  at 
the  Gores,  that  he  was  believed  to  have  been  with  her  during  the 
half-hour  that  had  elapsed.  He  approached  Eve  ;  but  the  sense 
of  an  injustice  he  could  not  immediately  remove,  checked  the 
warm  impulse  with  which  he  was  coming  to  pour  out  his  heart, 
and  against  every  wish  and  feeling  of  his  soul,  he  was  constrained 
and  cold. 

*'  No,  indeed !"  exclaimed  Lady  Mildred,  her  voice  suddenly 
becoming  audible,  *'  I  shall  set  down  Mr.  Clay,  whose  door  I  pass. 
Lord  George,  ask  Mr.  Clay  if  he  is  ready." 

Eve  Gore  suddenly  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  as  if  a  spirit  had 
whispered  that  her  last  chance  for  happiness  was  poised  on  that 
moment's  lapse. 

"  Ernest,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  unnaturally  low  that  it  made 
his  veins  creep  with  the  fear  that  her  reason  was  unseated,  "  I  am 
lost  if  you  go  with  her.  Stay,  dear  Ernest !  She  cannot  love 
you  as  I  do.     I  implore  you,  remember  that  my  life — my  life " 

"  Beg  pardon,"  said  Lord  George,  laying  his  hand  familiarly 
on  Clay's  shoulder,  and  drawing  him  away,  "  Lady  Mildred  waits 
for  you!" 

"  I  will  return  in  an  instant,  dearest  Eve,"  he  said,  springing 
again  to  her  side,  "  I  will  apologize  and  be  with  you.  One  in- 
stant— only  one " 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  the  poor  girl,  sinking  into  a  chair,  and 
bursting  into  tears. 

Lady  Mildred  sat  in  her  chariot,  but  her  head  drooped  on  her 
breast,  and  her  arms  hung  lifeless  at  her  side. 

*'She  is  surely  ill,"  said  Lord  George;  "jump  in  Clay,  my 
fine  fellow.  Get  her  home.  Shut  the  door,  Thomas  !  Go  on, 
coachman  !"     Ai^d  away  sped  the  fleet  horses  of  Lady  Mildred, 


LATER  DAYS.  2d1 


but  not  homeward.  Clay  lifted  lier  head  and  spoke  to  her,  but, 
receiving  no  answer,  he  busied  himself  chafing  her  hands,  and,  the 
carriage  blinds  being  drawn,  he  thought  momently  he  should  bo 
rid  of  his  charge  by  their  arrival  in  Grosvenor  square.  But  the 
minutes  elapsed,  and  still  the  carriage  sped  on ;  and  surprised  at 
last  into  suspicion,  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  checkstring,  but  the 
small  fingers  he  had  been  chafing  so  earnestly  arrested  his  arm. 

"No,  no  !"  said  Lady  Mildred,  rising  from  his  shoulder,  and 
throwing  her  arms  passionately  around  his  neck,  "  you  must  go 
blindfold,  and  go  with  me  !  Ernest !  Ernest !"  she  continued, 
as  he  struggled  an  instant  to  reach  the  string ;  but  he  felt  her 
tears  on  his  breast,  and  his  better  angel  ceased  to  contend  with 
him.  He  sunk  back  in  the  chariot,  with  those  fragile  arms  wound 
around  him,  and,  with  fever  in  his  brain,  and  leaden  sadness  at 
his  heart,  sufi'ered  that  swift  chariot  to  speed  on  its  guilty  way. 

In  a  small  maison  de  plaisance,  which  he  well  knew,  in  one  of 
the  most  romantic  dells  of  Devon,  built  with  exquisite  taste  by 
Lady  Mildred,  and  filled  with  all  that  art  and  wealth  could 
minister  to  luxury,  Ernest  Clay  passed  the  remainder  of  the 
summer,  forgetful  of  everything  beyond  his  prison  of  pleasure, 
except  a  voice  full  of  bitter  remorse,  which,  sometimes,  in  the 
midst  of  his  abandonment,  whispered  the  name  of  Eve  Gore. 


CHAPTER    lY. 

The  rain  poured  in  torrents  from  the  broad  leads  and  Gothic 

battlements  of —  Castle,  and  the  dull  and  plashing  echoes, 

sent  up  with  steady  reverberation  from  the  stone  pavement  of 
the  terrace  and  courts,  lulled  to  a  late  sleep  one  of  the  most  gay 
and  fashionable  parties  assembled  out  of  Londoa.     It  was  verg- 


252  A  POET'S  WAKING. 

ing  toward  noon,  and,  startled  from  a  dream  of  music,  by  the 
entrance  of  a  servant,  Ernest  Clay  drew  back  the  heavy  bed-cur- 
tains and  looked  irresolutely  around  his  luxurious  chamber.  The 
coals  in  the  bright  fire  widened  their  smoking  cracks  and  parted 
with  an  indolent  eifort,  the  well-trained  menial  glided  stealthily 
about,  arranging  the  preparations  for  the  author's  toilet,  the  gray 
daylight  came  in  grayer  and  softer  through  the  draped  folds  which 
fell  over  the  windows ;  and,  if  there  was  a  temptation  to  get  up, 
it  extended  no  further  than  to  the  deeply  cushioned  and  spacious 
chair,  over  which  was  flung  a  dressing-gown,  of  the  loose  and 
flowing  fashion  and  gorgeous  stuff  of  the  Orient. 

"  Thomas,  what  stars  are  visible  to  the  naked  eye  this  morn- 
ing ?"  said  the  couchant  poet,  with  a  heavy  yawn. 

"Sir!" 

"  I  asked  if  Lady  Grace  was  at  breakfast?" 

"  Her  ladyship  took  breakfast  in  her  own  room,  I  believe,  sir  !" 

"  ^  Qualis  rexy  talis  grex."*     Bring  mine  !" 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir  ?" 

"  I  said,  I  would  have  an  egg  and  a  spatchcock,  Thomas  ! 
And,  Thomas,  see  if  the  Duke  has  done  with  the  Morning  Post. 

"  I  could  have  been  unusually  agreeable  to  Lady  Grace,"  soli- 
loquized the  author,  as  he  completed  his  toilet ;  "  I  feel  both 
gregarious  and  brilliant  this  morning,  and  should  have  breakfast- 
ed below.  Strange  that  one  feels  so  dexterous-minded  sometimes 
after  a  hard  drink ! — Bacchus  waking  like  Aurora  !  Thomas, 
you  forgot  the  claret !  I  could  coin  this  efflux  of  soul,  now, 
into  '  burning  words,'  and  I  will.  What  is  the  cook's  name, 
Thomas .''  Gone !  So  has  the  builder  of  this  glorious  spatch- 
cock narrowly  escaped  immortality !  Fairest  Lady  Grace,  the 
sonnet  shall  be  yours,  at  the  rebound  !     A  sonnet .?  N — n — no  ! 


LATER  DAYS.  253 


But  I  could  write  such  a  love-letter  this  morning!  Morning 
Post.  '  JDicdj  at  Brighton,  Mr.  WiUiani  Brown.''  Brown — 
Brown — what  was  that  pretty  girl's  name  that  married  a  Brown 
— a  rich  William  Brown.  Beverly  was  her  name — Julia  Beverly 
— a  flower  for  the  garden  of  Epicurus — a  mate  for  Lecntium ! 
I  loved  her  till  I  was  stopped  by  Mr.  Brown — loved  her }  by 
Jove,  I  loved  her — as  well  as  I  loved  anybody  that  year.  Sup- 
pose she  were  now  the  widow  Brown?  If  I  thought  so,  faith! 
I  ^yould  write  her  such  a  reminiscent  epistle  !  Why  not  as  it  is — 
on  the  supposition }  Egad,  if  it  is  not  her  William  Brown,  it  is 
no  fault  of  mine.     Here  goes,  at  a  venture  ! 

"  To  her  toho  ivas  Julia  Beverly — 

"  Your  dark  eye  rests  on  this  once  familiar  hand-writing.  If 
your  pulse  could  articulate  at  this  moment,  it  would  murmur  he 
loved  me  well !  He  who  writes  to  you  now,  after  years  of  silence, 
parted  from  you,  with  your  tears  upon  his  lips — parted  from  you 
as  the  last  shadow  parts  from  the  sun,  with  a  darkness  that  must 
deepen  till  morn  again.  I  begin  boldly,  but  the  usage  of  the 
world  is  based  upon  forgetfulness  in  absence,  and  I  have  not  for- 
gotten.    Yet,  this  is  not  to  be  a  love-letter. 

"  I  am  turning  back  a  leaf  in  my  heart.  Turn  to  it  in 
yours  !  On  a  night  in  June,  within  the  shadow  of  the  cypress 
by  the  fountain  of  Ceres,  in  the  ducal  gardens  of  Florence,  at 
the  festa  of  the  Duke's  birthnight,  I  first  whispered  to  you  of 
love.  Is  it  so  writ  in  your  tablet }  Or,  were  those  broken 
words,  and  those  dark  tresses  drooped  on  my  breast,  mockeries  of 
a  night — flung  from  remembrance  with  the  flowers  you  wore  } 
Flowers,  said  I }  Oh,  Heaven  !  how  beautiful  you  were,  with 
those  lotus-stems  braided  in  your  hair,  and  the  white  chalices 


^4  -A-  LOVE-LETTER  FOR  A  VENT. 


gleamimg  tlirougli  your  ringlots,  as  if  pouring  their  perfume  over 
four  shoulders  !  How  rosy-pale,  like  light  through  alabaster; 
Bhowed  the  cheek  that  shrank  from  me  beneath  the  betraying 
brightness  of  the  moon  !  How  musical,  above  the  murmur  of  the 
fountain,  rose  the  trembling  wonder  at  my  avowal,  and  the  few 
faint  syllables  of  forgiveness  and  love,  as  I  strained  you  wildly  tc 
my  heart !     Oh,  can  that  iDe  forgotten  ! 

"  With  the  news  that  your  husband  was  dead,  rushed  bact 
these  memories  in  a  whirlwind.  For  one  brief,  one  delirious 
moment,  I  fancied  you  might  yet  be  mine.  I  write  because  the 
delirium  is  over.  Had  it  not  been,  I  should  be  now  weeping  at 
your  feet — my  life  upon  your  lips  ! 

"  I  will  try  again  to  explain  to  you,  calmly,  a  feeling  that  I 
have.  We  met  in  the  aisle  of  Santa  Croce — strangers.  There 
was  a  winged  lightness  in  your  step,  and  a  lithe  wave  in  the  out- 
line of  your  form,  as  you  moved  through  the  sombre  light,  which 
thrilled  me  like  the  awakening  to  life  of  some  piece  of  serial 
sculpture.  I  watched  you  to  your  carriage,  and  returned,  to  trace 
that  shadowy  aisle  for  hours,  breathing  the  same  air,  and  trying 
to  conjure  up  to  my  imagination  the  radiant  vision  lost  to  me,  I 
feared,  for  ever.  That  night  your  necklace  parted  and  fell  at  my 
feet,  in  the  crowd  at  the  Pitti,  and,  as  I  returned  the  warm  jewel 
to  your  hand,  I  recognized  the  haunting  features  which  I  seemed 
to  live  but  to  see  again.  By  the  first  syllable  of  acknowledgment, 
I  knew  you — for,  in  yoMV  voice,  there  was  that  profound  sweetness 
that  comes  only  from  a  heart  thought-saddened^  and,  therefore, 
careless  of  the  cold  fashion  of  the  world.  In  the  embayed  win- 
dow, looking  out  on  tlie  moonlit  terrace  of  the  garden,  I  joined 
you,  with  the  confidence  of  a  familiar  friend,  and,  in  the  low  un- 
dertone of  earnest  and  sincerity,  we  talked  of  the  thousand  themes 


LATER  DAYS. 


w 


with  which  the  walls  of  that  palace  of  pilgrimage  breathe  and 
kindle.  Chance-guided,  and  ignorant  even  of  each  other's  names, 
we  met  on  the  galleries  of  art,  in  the  gardens  of  noble  palaces,  in 
the  thronged  resorts  open  to  all  in  that  land  of  the  sun,  and  my 
heart  expanded  to  you  like  a  flower,  and  love  entered  it  with  the 
fulness  of  light.  Again,  I  say,  we  dwelt  but  upon  themes  of  in- 
tellect, and  I  had  not  breathed  to  you  of  the  passion  that  grew 
hour  by  hour. 

"  We  met,  for  the  last  time,  on  the  night  of  the  Duke's  festa — 
in  that  same  glorious  palace  where  we  had  first  blended  thought 
and  imagination  on  the  wondrous  miracles  of  art.  You  were  sad 
and  lower-voiced  than  even  5^(>ur  wont,  and  when  I  drew  you  from 
the  crowd,  and,  wandering  with  you  through  the  flowering  alleys  of 
the  garden,  stood,  at  last,  by  that  murmuring  fountain,  and 
ceased  suddenly  to  speak — there  was  the  threshold  of  love.  Did 
I^ou  forbid  me  to  enter  ?     You  fell  on  my  bosom  and  wept ! 

"  Had  I  brought  you  to  this  by  love-making  .''  '  Did  I  flatter  or 
plead  my  way  into  your  heart  ?  Were  you  wooed  or  importuned  ? 
It  is  true,  your  presence  drew  my  better  angel  closer  to  my  side, 
but  I  was  myself — such  as  your  brother  might  be  to  you — such 
as  you  would  have  found  me  through  life  ;  and  for  this — for  being 
what  I  was — with  no  art  or  eflbrt  to  win  afi'ection,  you  drew  the 
Teil  from  between  us — ^you  tempted  from  my  bosom  the  bird  that 
comes  never  back — ^you  suffered  me  to  love  you,  helplessly  and 
wildly,  when  you  knew  that  love  such  as  mine  impoverishes  life 
for  ever.  The  only  illimitable  trust,  the  only  boundless  belief  on 
earth,  is  first  love  !  What  had  I  done  to  be  robbed  of  this  irre- 
coverable gem — to  be  sent  wandering  through  the  world,  a  hope- 
less infidel  in  woman  ? 

"  I  have  become  a  celebrity  since  we  parted,  and  perhaps  you 


256  LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  LOYE. 


have  looked  Into  iny  books,  tbinking  I  inigbt  bave  woven,  iniv 
some  one  of  my  maiij-colored  woofs,  tlic  brigbt  tbroad  you  broke 
so  suddenly.  You  found  no  trace  of  it,  and,  you  tbougbt,  per- 
haps, that  all  memory  of  those  simpler  hours  was  drowned  in  the 
intoxicating  cup  of  fame.  I  have  accounted  in  this  way  for  your 
never  writing  to  cheer  or  congratulate  rne.  But,  if  this  conjec- 
ture be  true,  how  little  you  know  the  heart  you  threw  away — 
bow  little  you  know  of  the  thrice-locked,  light-shunning,  care- 
hidden  casket  in  which  is  treasured  up  the  refused  gold  of  a  first 
love.  What  else  is  there  on  earth  worth  hiding  and  brooding 
over  ?     Should  I  wing  such  treasures  with  words  and  lose  them  ? 

"  And  now  you  ask,  why,  after  years  of  healing  silence,  I  open 
this  wound  afresh,  and  wi'ite  to  you.  Is  it  to  prove  to  you  that  I 
love  you  ? — to  prepare  the  way  to  sec  you  again,  to  woo  and  win 
you  ?  No — though  I  was  worthy  of  you  once  !  No — though  I 
feel  living  in  my  soul  a  passion,  that,  with  long  silence  and  im- 
prisonment, has  become  well-nigh  uncontrollable.  I  am  not 
worthy  of  you  now  !  My  nature  is  soiled  and  world-polluted. 
I  am  prosperous  and  famous,  and  could  give  you  the  station  you 
never  won,  though  you  trod  on  my  heart  to  reach  it — but  the 
lamp  is  out,  on  my  altar  of  truth — I  love  by  my  lips — I  mock  at 
faith — I  marvel  at  belief  in  vows  or  fidelity — I  would  not  trust 
you — no,  if  you  were  mine  I  would  not  trust  you — though  I  held 
every  vein  of  your  bosom  like  a  hound's  leash.  Till  you  can  re- 
buke whim,  till  you  can  chain  imagination,  till  you  can  fetter 
blood,  I  will  not  believe  in  woman.      Yet  this  is  your  work  ! 

"  Would  you  know  why  I  write  to  you  }  Why  has  God  given  us 
the  instinct  of  outcry  in  agony,  but  to  inflict  on  those  who  wound 
us  a  portion  of  our  pain  .^  I  would  tell  you,  that  the  fire  you 
kindled  so  wantonly  burns  on — that,  after  years  of  distracting  am- 


LATER  DAYS.  257 


bition,  fame,  ami  pleasure,  I  still  tiuste  the  bitterness  3'ou  threw 
into  my  cup.;  tliat,  in  .'jccret,  when  musing  on  nij  triumphs — in  the 
crowd,  Avhen  eiek  with  adulation — in  this  lordl}"  castle,  when  lapt 
in  luxury  and  regard — in  all  hours  and  phases  of  a  lite  brilliant 
and  exciting  above  that  of  most  men — I  mourn  over  that  betrayed 
affection,  I  see  that  averted  foce,  I  worship  in  bitter  despair  that 
surpassing  loveliness  which  should  have  been  mine  in  its  glory  and 
flower. 

"  I  have  laade  my  moan.  I  have  given  voice  to  my  agony 
Farewell !"  Erxest  Clay, 

When  Mr.  Clay  had  concluded  this  "  airing  of  his  vocabulary," 
he  enclosed  it  in  a  hasty  note  to  his  friend,  the  Secretary  of  lega- 
tion at  the  court  of  Tuscany,  requesting  him  to  call  on  "  two 
abominable  old  maids,  by  the  name  of  Buggins  or  Blidginis," 
who  represented  the  scan.  mag.  of  Florence,  and  could,  doubtless, 
tell  him  how  to  forward  his  letter  to  "  the  Browns ;"  and  the 
castle-bell  sounding  as  he  achieved  the  suj^erscription,  he  descend- 
ed to  lunch,  very  much  lightened  of  his  ennui.,  but  with  no  more 
memory  of  the  ''  faithless  Julia,"  than  of  the  claret  which  had 
supplied  some  of  the  "  intensity"  of  his  st3de.  The  letter — 
began  as  a  mystification,  or,  if  it  had  an  object  beyond  the 
amusement  of  an  idle  hour,  intended  as  a  whimsical  revenge  for 
Miss  Beverley's  preference  of  a  rich  husband  to  her  then  undis- 
tinguished admirer — ^had,  in  the  heat  of  composition,  and  quite 
unconsciously  to  Clay,  enlisted  real  feelings,  totally  disconnected 
with  the  fair  Julia,  but  not  the  less  easily  fused  into  shape  and 
probability  by  the  facile  alchymy  of  genius.  The  reader  will  see 
at  once,  that  the  feelings  expressed  in  it  could  never  be  the  work 
of  imagination.  Truth  and  bitter  suffering  show  through  every 
line,  and  all  its  falsehood  or  fanoy  lay  in  its  capricious  address  to 


258  A  WOMAN  ABOUT  AWAKING. 


a  woman  wlio  had  really  not  the  slightest  share  in  contributing  to 
its  material.  The  irreparable  mischief  it  occasioned  will  be  seen 
in  the  sequel. 


CHAPTER  V. 

While  the  Ambassador's  bag  is  steadily  posting  over  the  hills 
t^f  Burgundy,  with  Mr.  Clay's  letter  to  Julia  Beverley,  the  reader 
must  be  content  to  gain  a  little  upon  Her  Majesty's  courier,  and 
look  in  upon  a  family  party,  in  the  terraced  front  of  a  villa  in  the 
Sieighborhood  of  Fiesole.  The  evening  was  Italian  and  autum- 
nal, of  a  ripe  golden  glory,  and  the  air  was  tempered  to  the 
blood,  as  daylight  is  to  the  eye — so  fitly  as  be  a  forgotten 
blessing. 

A  well-made,  well-dressed,  robust  gentleman,  who  might  be 
forty-five,  or  a  well-preserved  sixty,  sat  at  a  stone  table,  on  the 
westward  edge  of  the  terrace.  The  London  Times  lay  on  his 
lap,  and  a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  single  glass  stood  at  his  right 
Land,  and  he  was  dozing  quietly  after  his  dinner.  Near  a  foun- 
tain below,  two  fair  English  children  played  with  clusters  of  ripe 
grapep.  An  Italian  nurse,  forgetting  her  charge,  stood,  with 
folded  arms,  leaning  against  a  rough  garden  statue,  and  looked 
vacantly  at  the  sunset  sky,  while  up  and  down  a  level  and  flower- 
ing alley,  in  the  slope  of  the  garden,  paced  slowly  and  gracefully 
Mrs.  Williaiii  Brown,  the  mother  of  these  children,  the  wife  of 
the  gentleman  sleeping  over  his  newspaper,  and  the  heroine  of 
this  story. 

Julia  Beverley  had  been  married  five  years,  and,  for  three  years 
at  least,  she  had  relinquished  the  habit  of  dressing  her  fine  per- 
son to  advantage.   Yet,  in  that  untransparent  sleeve,  was  hidden  an 


LATER  DAYS.  259 


arm  of  statuary  roundness  and  polish,  and,  in  those  carelessly 
fitted  shoes,  were  disguised  feet  of  a  plump  diminutiveness  and 
arched  instep  worthy  to  be  the  theme  of  a  new  Cenerentola. 
The  voluptuous  chisel  of  the  Greek  never  moulded  shoulders  and 
bust  of  more  exquisite  beauty,  yet,  if  she  had  not  become  uncon- 
scious of  the  possession  of  these,  altogether,  she  had  so  far  lost 
the  vanity  of  her  girlhood,  that  the  prudery  of  a  quakeress 
would  not  have  altered  a  fold  of  her  cashmere.  Her  bonnet,  as 
she  walked,  had  fallen  back,  and,  holding  it  by  one  string,  over 
her  shoulder,  she  put  away,  from  behind  her  "  pearl-round  ear," 
the  dark  and  heavy  ringlet  it  had  tangled  in  its  fall,  and,  with  its 
fellow  shading  her  cheek  and  shoulder  in  broken  masses  of 
auburn,  she  presented  a  picture  of  luxurious  and  yet  neglected 
beauty,  such  as  the  undress  pencil  of  Greuze  would  have  revelled 
in  portraying.  The  care  of  such  silent  fringes  as  veiled  her  in- 
dolent eyes,  is  not  left  to  mortals,  and  the  covert  loves,  who  curve 
these  soft  cradles  and  sleep  in  them,  had  kept  Julia  Beverley's 
with  the  fidelity  of  fairy  culture. 

The  Beverley s  had  married  their  daughter  to  Mr.  Brown,  with 
the  usual  parental  care  as  to  his  fortune,  and  the  usual  parental 
forgetfulness  of  everything  else.  There  was  a  better  chance  for 
happiness,  it  is  true,  than  in  most  matches  of  convenience,  for 
the  bridegroom,  though  past  his  meridian,  was  a  sensible  and  very 
presentable  sort  of  man,  and  the  bride  was  naturally  indolent,  and 
therefore  likely  to  travel  the  road  shaped  out  for  her  by  the  very 
jiarked  hedges  of  expectation  and  duty.  What  she  had  felt  for 
Mr.  Clay,  during  their  casual  and  brief  intimacy,  will  be  seen 
by-and-by,  but  it  had  made  no  barrier  to  her  union  with  Mr. 
Brown.  With  a  luxurious  house,  fine  -horses,  and  her  own  way, 
the  stream  of  life,  for  the  first  year  of  marriage,  ran  smoothly  off. 


260  PIVOT  OF  A  FATE. 


The  second  year  was  chequered  with  misgivings  that  she  had 
thrown  herself  away,  and  nights  of  bitter  weeping  over  a  destiny 
in  which  no  one  of  her  bright  dreams  of  love  seemed  possible  to 
be  realized  ;  and  still,  habit  riveted  its  thousand  chains,  her  children 
grew  attractive  and  attaching,  and,  by  the  time  at  which  our 
story  commences,  the  warm  images  of  a  life  of  passionate  devotion 
had  ceased  to  haunt  her  dreams,  sleeping  or  waking,  and  she  bade 
fair  to  live  and  die  one  of  the  happy  many  about  whom  "  there  is 
no  story  to  tell." 

Mr.  Brown,  at  this  period,  occupied  a  villa  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Florence,  and,  on  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Clay's  letter  at  the  English 
Embassy,  it  was  at  once  forwarded  to  Fiesole,  where  it  intruded, 
like  the  serpent  of  old,  on  the  domestic  paradise  to  which  the 
reader  has  been  introduced. 

Weak  and  ill-reo;ulated  as  was  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Brown,  her 
first  feeling,  after  reading  the  ardent  epistle  of  Mr.  Clay,  was  un- 
mingled  resentment  at  its  freedom.  Her  husband's  back  was 
turned  to  her  as  he  sat  on  the  terrace,  and,  ascending  the  garden 
steps,  she  threw  the  letter  on  the  table. 

'■'■  Here  is  a  letter  of  condolence  on  your  death,"  she  said,  the 
blood  mantling  in  her  cheek,  and  her  lips  arched  into  an  expres- 
sion of  wounded  pride  and  indignation. 

Alas,  for  the  slight  pivot  on  which  turns  the  balance  of  destiny 
— her  husband  slept ! 

"William  !"  she  said  again,  but  the  tone  was  fainter,  and  the 
hand  she  raised  to  touch  him,  stayed  suspended  above  the  fated 
letter. 

Waiting  one  instant  more  for  an  answer,  and  bendin  r  over  her 
husband  to  be  sure  that  his  sleep  was  real,  she  hastily  placed  the 
letter  in  her  bosom,  and,  with  pale  brow  and  limbs  trembling  be- 


LATER  DAYS,  261 


Death  her,  fled  to  her  chamber.  Memory  had  required  but  an 
instant  to  call  up  the  past,  and  in  that  instant,  too,  the  honeyed 
flatteries  she  had  glanced  over  in  such  haste,  had  burnt  into  her 
imagination — effacing  all  else,  even  the  object  for  which  he  had 
written,  and  the  reproaches  he  had  lavished  on  her  unfaithfulness. 
With  locked  doors,  and  curtains  dropped  between  her  and  the 
glowing  twilight,  she  reperused  the  worshipping  picture  of  herself, 
drawn  so  covertly  under  the  semblance  of  complaint,  and  the 
feeling  of  conscious  beauty,  so  long  forgotten,  stole  back  into  her 
veins,  like  the  re-incarnation  of  a  departed  spirit.  With  a  flashing 
glance  at  the  tall  mirror  before  her,  she  stood  up,  arching  her 
white  neck,  and  threading  her  fingers  through  the  loosened  masses 
3f  her  hair.  She  felt  that  she  was  beautiful — still  superbly  beau- 
tiful.    She  advanced  to  the  mirror. 

Her  bright  lips,  her  pliant  motion,  the  smooth  transparence  of 
her  skin,  the  fulness  of  vein  and  limb,  all  mingled  in  one  assurance 
of  youth,  in  a  wild  desire  for  admiration,  in  a  strange,  restless, 
feverish  impatience  to  be  away  where  she  could  be  seen  and  loved 
— away  to  fulfil  that  destiny  of  the  heart  which  seemed  now  the 
one  object  of  life,  though  for  years  so  unaccountably  forgotten  ! 

"  I  was  born  to  be  loved  !"  she  wildly  exclaimed,  pacing  her 
chamber,  and  wondering  at  her  own  beauty  as  the  mirror  gave 
back  her  kindling  features,  and  animated  grace  of  movement. 
"  How  could  I  have  forgotten  that  I  was  beautiful .'"  But  at 
that  instant  her  husband's  voice,  cold,  harsh  and  unimaginative, 
forced  its  way  to  her  ear,  and,  convulsed  with  a  tumultuous 
misery  she  could  neither  struggle  with  nor  define,  she  threw  her- 
self on  her  bed,  and  abandoned  herself  to  an  uncontrolled  agony  of 
tears. 

Let  those  smile  at  this  paroxysm  of  feeling,  whose  "  dream  has 


262  PAST  HOPE  QtJESTIOXiXi>  ^liIJ^nO^^ 


come  to  pass  !"  Let  those  wonder,  who  have  never  been  startled 
from  their  common-place  existence  with  the  heart's  bitter  question 
— is  this  all  ? 

Eeader  !  are  you  loved  ? — loved  as  you  dreamed  in  youth  you 
might  and  must  be — loved  by  the  matchless  creature  you  painted 
in  your  imagination,  lofty-hearted,  confiding,  and  radiantly  fair  ? 
Have  you  spent  your  treasure  ?  Have  you  lavished  the  boundless 
wealth  of  your  affection  ?  Have  you  beggared  heart  and  soul  by 
the  wild  abandonment  to  love,  of  which  you  once  felt  capable  ? 

Lady  !  of  you  I  ask  :  Is  the  golden  flow  of  your  youth  coined 
as  it  melts  away  ?  Are  your  truth  and  fervor,  your  delicacy  and 
devotedness,  your  unutterable  depths  of  tenderness  and  tears — are 
they  named  on  another's  lips  ? — are  they  made  the  incense  to 
Heaven  of  another's  nightly  prayer  ? — Your  beauty  is  in  its  pride 
and  flower — who  lays  back,  with  idolatrous  caress,  the  soft  part- 
ing of  your  hair  ?  Who  smiles  when  your  cheek  mantles,  and 
shudders  when  it  is  pale  ? — Who  sits  with  your  slender  fingers 

clasped  in  his dumb,  because  there  are  bounds  to  language, 

and  trembling,  because  death  will  divide  you?  Oh,  the  ray  of 
light  wasted  on  the  ocean,  and  the  ray  caught  and  made  priceless 
in  a  king's  diamond — the  wild-flower  perishing  in  the  woods,  and 
its  sister  culled  for  culture  in  the  garden  of  a  poet — are  not  wider 
apart  in  their  destiny  than  the  loved  and  the  neglected  ! — "  Blessed 
are  the  beloved,"  should  read  a  new  beatitude — "  for  theirs  is  the 
foretaste  of  Paradise  !" 


CHAPTER    VI. 

* 

The  autumn  following,  found  Mr.  Clay  a  pilgrim  for  health  to 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  Exhausted,  body  and  soul,  with 
the  life  of  alternate  gaiety  and  passion  into  which  his  celebrity  had 


LATER  DAYS.  263 


drawn  him,  lie  bad  accepted,  with  a  sense  of  exquisite  relief,  the 
offer  of  a  cruise  among  the  Greek  Isles  in  a  friend's  yacht,  and,  in 
the  pure  stillness  of  those  bright  seas,  with  a  single  companion  and 
his  books,  he  idled  away  the  summer  in  a  luxury  of  repose  and 
enjoyment,  such  as  only  the  pleasure-weary  can  understand.  Re- 
cruited in  health,  and,  with  a  mind  beginning  to  yearn  once  more 
for  the  long  foregone  stimulus  of  society,  he  landed  at  Naples  in 
the  beginninor  of  October. 

"  We  are  not  very  gay  just  now,"  said  the  English  Minister,  with 
whom  he  hastened  to  renew  an  acquaintance  commenced  in  his 
former  travels,  "  but  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  world  is  *  at  home' 
to-night,  and  if  you  are  as  susceptible  as  most  of  the  cavaliers  of 
the  Chiaja,  you  will  find  Naples  attractive  enough  after  you  have 
seen  her." 

"  English .?" 

"  Yes — but  you  cannot  have  known  her,  for  I  think  she  was 
never  heard  of  till  she  came  to  Naples." 

"  Her  name  .^" 

"  Why,  you  should  hear  that  after  seeing  her.  Call  her  Queen 
Giovanna,  and  she  will  come  nearer  your  prepossession.  By-the- 
by,  what  have  you  to  do  this  morning  .?" 

"  I  am  at  your  Excellency's  disposal." 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  atdier  of  a  very  clever  artist,  then,  and 
I  will  show  you  her  picture.  It  should  be  the  man's  chef-dPaiwre^ 
for  he  has  lost  his  wits  in  painting  it." 

"  Literally,  do  you  mean  .^" 

"  It  would  seem  so — for,  though  the  picture  was  finished  some 
months  since,  he  has  never  taken  it  off  his  easel,  and  is  generally 
found  looking  at  it.  Besides,  he  has  neither  cleaned  pallet  nor 
brush  since  the  last  day  she  sat  to  him." 


264  BEAUTY  BORN  AGAIN. 


"  If  he  were  young  and  handsome " 

"  So  he  is — and  so  are  scores  of  the  lady's  devoted  admirers  ; 
but  she  is  either  prudent  or  cold,  to  a  degree  that  effectually  repels 
hope,  and  the  painter  pines  with  the  rest." 

A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  them  to  a  large  room  near  the 
Corso,  tenanted  by  the  Venetian  artist,  Ippolito  Incontri.  The 
Minister  presented  his  friend,  and  Clay  forgot  their  errand  in  ad- 
miration of  the  magnificent  brigand  face  and  figure  of  the  painter, 
who,  after  a  cold  salutation,  retreated  into  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  point  of  view,  and  stood  gazing  past  them  at  his  easel,  silent 
and  unconscious  of  observation. 

"  I  have  seen  your  wonder,"  said  Clay,  turning  to  the  picture 
with  a  smile,  and  at  the  first  glance  only  remarking  its  resemblance 
to  a  face  that  should  be  familiar  to  him.  "  I  am  surprised  that  I 
cannot  name  her  at  once,  for  I  am  sure  I  know  her  well.  But, 
stay  ! — the  light  grows  on  my  eye — no  ! — with  that  expression, 
certainly  not — I  am  sure,  now,  that  I  have  not  seen  her.  Won- 
derful beauty  !  Yet  there  was  a  superficial  likeness  !  Have  you 
ever  remarked,  Signor  Incontri,  that,  through  very  intellectual 
faces,  such  as  this,  you  can  sometimes  see  what  the  countenance 
would  have  been  in  other  circumstances — without  the  advantages 
of  education,  I  mean  .?" 

No  answer.  The  painter  was  absorbed  in  his  picture,  and  Clay 
turned  to  the  ambassador. 

"  I  have  seen  somewhere  a  face,  and  a  very  lovely  one,  too, 
that  was  strangely  like  these  features  ;  yet,  not  only  without  the 
soul  that  is  here,  but  incapable,  I  should  think,  of  acquiring  it  by 
Mny  discipline,  either  of  thought  or  feeling." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  original  of  this,  and  the  painter  has  given 
the  soul !" 


LATER  DAYS.  3^6 


"  He  could  as  soon  warm  a  statue  into  life,  as  do  it.  Invent 
that  look !  Oh,  he  would  be  a  god,  not  a  painter  !  Raphael 
copied,  and  this  man  copies  ;  but  Nature  did  the  original  of  this, 
as  he  did  of  Raphael's  immortal  beauties  ;  and  the  departure  of 
the  most  vanishing  shadow  from  the  truth,  would  be  a  blot  irre- 
mediable." 

Clay  lost  himself  in  the  picture,  and  was  silent.  Veil  after 
veil  fell  away  from  the  expression  as  he  gazed,  and  the  woman 
seemed  melting  out  from  the  canvas  into  life.  The  _pose  and  dra- 
pery were  nothing.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  female  standing  still 
— perhaps  looking  idly  out  on  the  sea — lost  in  revery  perhaps — 
perhaps  just  feeling  the  breath  of  a  coming  thought,  the  stirring 
of  some  lost  memory  that  would  presently  awake.  The  lips  were 
slightly  unclosed.  The  heavy  eyelashes  were  wakeful,  yet  coucb- 
ant  in  their  expression.  The  large,  dark  orbs,  lustrous  and  suf- 
fused, looked  of  the  depth  and  intense  stillness  of  the  midnight  sky 
close  to  the  silver  rim  of  a  moon  high  in  heaven.  The  coloring 
was  warm  and  Italian,  but  every  vein  of  the  transparent  temple 
was  steeped  in  calmness  ;  and,  even  through  the  bright  pome- 
granate richness  of  a  mouth  full  of  the  capability  of  passion,  there 
seemed  to  breathe  the  slumberous  fragrance  of  a  flower  motionless 
under  its  night  burthen  of  dew.  It  portrayed  no  rank  in  life. 
The  drapery  might  have  been  a  queen's  or  a  contadina's.  It  was 
a  woman  stolen  to  the  canvas  from  her  inmost  cell  of  privacy, 
with  her  soul  unstartled  by  a  human  look,  and  mere  life  and  free- 
dom from  pain  or  care  expressed  in  her  form  and  countenance — 
vet,  with  all  this,  a  radiance  of  beauty,  and  a  sustained  loftiness 
of  feeling,  as  apparent  as  the  altitude  of  the  stars.  It  was  a 
matchless  woman  incomparably  painted ;  and,  though  not  a  man 
to  fall  in  love  with  a  semblance,  Clay  felt,  and  struggled  in  vaia 
12 


266  THE  OLD  LOVE  MET  AGAIN. 


against  the  feeling,  that  the  creature  drawn  in  that  portrait  con- 
trolled the  next,  and  perhaps  the  most  eventful,  revolution  of  his 
many-sphered  existence. 

The  next  five  hours  have  (for  this  tale)  no  history. 

"  I  have  perplexed  myself  in  vain,  since  I  left  you,"  Clay  said 
to  the  Ambassador,  as  they  rolled  on  their  way  to  the  palace  of  the 
fair  Englishwoman,  "  but  when  I  yield  to  the  secret  conviction 
that  I  have  seen  the  adorable  original  of  the  picture,  I  am  lost  in 
a  greater  mystery — how  I  ever  could  have  forgotten  her.  The 
coming  five  minutes  will  undo  the  Sphinx's  riddle  for  me." 

**  My  life  on  it,  you  have  never  seen  her,"  said  his  friend,  as 
flie  carriage  turned  through  a  reverberating  archway,  and,  rapidly 
making  the  circuit  of  a  large  court,  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  palace 
blazing  with  light. 

An  opening  was  made  through  the  crowd,  as  the  Ambassador's 
name  was  announced,  and  Clay  followed  him  through  the  brilliant 
rooms  with  an  agitation  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 
Taste,  as  well  as  sumptuous  expensiveness,  was  stamped  on  every- 
thing around,  and  there  was  that  indefinable  expression  in  the 
assembly,  which  no  one  could  detect  or  appreciate  better  than  Clay, 
and  which  is  composed,  among  other  things,  of  a  perfect  conviction, 
on  the  part  of  the  guests,  that  their  time,  presence,  and  approba- 
tion, are  well  bestowed  where  they  are. 

At  the  curtained  door  of  a  small  boudoir,  draped  like  a  tent,  a 
Neapolitan  noble,  of  high  rank,  turned  smiling  to  the  Ambassador, 
and  placed  his  finger  on  his  lip.  The  silken  pavilion  was  crowded, 
and  only  uniforms  and  heads,  fixed  in  attention,  could  be  seen  by 
those  without ;  but,  from  the  arching  folds  of  the  curtain,  came  a 
female  voice  of  the  deepest  and  sweetest  melodiousness,  reading, 
in  low  and  finely-measured  cadence,  from  an  English  poem. 


EARLIER  DAYS.  267 

"  Do  you  know  the  voice  r"  asked  the  Amlbassador,  as  Clay 
stood  like  a  man  fixed  to  marble,  eagerly  listening. 

"  Perfectly  !     I  implore  you  tell  me  who  reads  !" 

"  No  ! — though  your  twofold  recognizance  is  singular.  You 
shall  see  her  before  you  hear  her  name.     What  is  she  reading  r" 

"  My  own  poetry,  by  Heaven  !  and  yet  I  cannot  name  her  ! 
This  passes  belief.  I  have  heard  that  voice  sob — sob  convul- 
sively, and  with  accents  of  love — I  have  heard  it  whisper  and  en- 
treat— ^you  look  incredulous,  but  it  is  true.     If  she  do  not  know 

me — nay,  if  she  has  not "  he  would  have  said  "  loved  me" — 

but  the  look  of  scrutiny  and  surprise  on  the  countenance  of  the 
Ambassador  checked  the  imprudent  avowal,  and  he  became  aware 
that  he  was  on  dangerous  ground.  He  relapsed  into  silence,  and, 
crowding  close  to  the  tent,  heard  the  numbers  he  had  long  ago 
linked  and  forgotten,  breathing  in  music  from  those  mysterious 
lips,  and,  possessed  as  he  was  by  suspense  and  curiosity,  he  could 
have  wished  thai  sweet  moment  to  have  lasted  for  ever.  I  call 
upon  the  poet,  if  there  be  one  who  reads  this  idle  tale,  to  tell  me 
if  there  be  a  flattery  more  exquisite  on  earth,  if  there  be  a  deeper- 
sinking  plummet  of  pride,  ever  dropped  into  the  profound  bosom 
of  the  bard,  than  the  listening  to  thoughts  born  in  pain  and  silence, 
articulate  in  the  honeyed  accents  of  woman  ?  Answer  me,  poet ! 
Answer  me,  women,  beloved  of  poets,  who  have  breathed  their 
worshipping  incense,  and  know  by  what  its  bright  censer  was 
kindled  ! 

The  voice  ceased,  and  there  was  one  moment  of  stillness,  and 
then  the  rooms  eehoed  with  acclamation.  "  Crown  her!"  cried 
a  tall  old  man,  who  stood  near  the  entrance  covered  with  military 
orders.  ^'  Crown  her  !"  repeated  every  tongue  ;  and,  from  a  vase 
that  hung  suspended  in  the  centre  of  the  pavilion,  the  fresh 


26S  THE  POET  CROWNED. 

flowers  were  snatclied  by  eager  hands  and  wreathed  into  a  chap- 
let.  But  those  without  became  clamorous  to  see  the  imposition 
of  the  crown  ;  and,  clearing  a  way  through  the  entrance,  the  old 
man  took  the  chaplet  from  the  busy  hands  that  had  entwined  it, 
and  crying  out  with  Italian  enthusiasm,  "  A  triumph  !  a  triumph  !" 
led  forth  the  majestic  Corinna  to  the  crowd. 

The  Ambassador  looked  for  Clay.  He  had  shrunk  behind  the 
statue  of  a  winged  Cupid,  and,  though  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  a 
gaze  of  stone  on  the  magnificent  creature  who  was  the  centre  of 
all  regards,  he  seemed,  by  his  open  lips  and  heaving  chest,  to  be 
gasping  with  some  powerful  emotion. 

"  Give  me  the  chaplet !"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  magnificent 
idol  of  the  crowd.  And,  with  no  apparent  emotion,  except  a 
glowing  spot  in  her  temples,  and  a  quicker  throb  in  the  snowy 
curve  of  her  neck  and  bosom,  she  waved  back  the  throng  upon 
her  right,  and  advanced  with  majestic  steps  to  the  statue  of 
Love. 

"Welcome,  Ernest!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  and  losing,  for  a  scarce  perceptible  moment,  the  smile 
from  her  lips.  "  Here,  my  friends !  she  exclaimed,  turning 
again,  and  leading  him  from  his  concealment,  "  honor  to  whom 
honor  is  due  !  A  crown  for  the  poet  of  my  country,  Ernest 
Clay!" 

*'  Clay,  the  poet !"  "  The  English  poet !"  "  The  author  of 
the  poem  !"  were  explanations  that  ran  (juickly  through  the  room, 
and,  as  the  crowd  pressed  closer  around,  murmuring  the  enthusi- 
asm native  to  that  southern  clime,  Julia  Beverley  sprang  upon  an 
ottoman,  and  standing,  in  her  magnificent  beauty,  conspicuous 
above  all,  she  placed  the  crown  above  Clay's  head,  and  bending 


LATER  DAYS.  e,Qg 


gracefully  and  smiliugly  over  liini,  impressed  a  kiss  on  his  fore 
head,  and  said,  "  This  fur  the  poet  /" 

And,  of  the  many  lovers  of  this  superb  woman  who  saw  that  kiss, 
ilot  one  showed  a  frown  or  turned  away — so  natural  to  the  warm 
impulse  of  the  hour  did  it  seem — so  pure  an  expression  of  admira- 
tion of  genius — so  mere  a  tribute  of  welcome  from  Italy  to  the 
bard,  by  an  inspiration  born  of  its  sunny  air.  Surrounded  with 
eager  claimants  for  his  acquaintance,  intoxicated  with  flattery, 
giddy  with  indefinable  emotions  of  love  and  pleasure,  Ernest  Clay 
lost  sight  for  a  moment  of  the  face  that  beamed  on  him,  and  in 
that  moment  she  had  made  an  apology  of  fatigue,  and  retired,  leav- 
ing her  guests  to  their  pleasures. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

*'  Un  amour  rcchaujfe  nc  vaut  jamais  rien^^^  is  one  of  those 
common-places  in  the  book  of  love,  which  are  true  only  of  the 
common-place  and  unimaginative.  The  rich  gifts  of  affection, 
which  surfeit  the  cold  bosom  of  the  dull,  fall  upon  the  fiery  heart 
of  genius  like  spice-wood  and  incense,  and,  long  after  the  giver's 
prodigality  has  ceased,  the  mouldering  embers  lie  warm  beneath 
the  ashes  of  silence,  and  a  breath  will  uncover  and  rekindle  them. 
The  love  of  common  men  is  a  world  without  moon  or  stars. 
When  the  meridian  is  passed,  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  the  light 
departs,  and  the  night  that  follows  is  dark  indeed.  But,  as  the 
twilio"ht  closes  on  the  bright  and  warm  passion  of  the  poet,  me- 
mory lights  her  pale  lamp,  like  the  moon,  and  brightens  as  the 
darkness  deepens  ;  and  the  warm  sacrifices  made  in  love's  noon 
and  eve,  go  up  to  their  places  like  stars,  and,  with  the  light  trea- 
sured from  that  fervid  day,  shine  in  the  still  heaven  of  the  past 


270  POETS  AS  LOVERS. 


steadfast  tlioiigh  silent.  If  there  be  a  feature  of  the  liuman  soul  ' 
in  which,  more  than  in  all  others,  the  fiend  is  manifest,  it  is  the 
masculine  ingratitude  for  love.  What  wrongs,  what  agonies, 
what  unutterable  sorrows  are  the  reward  of  lavished  afibction,  of 
generous  self-abandonment,  of  unhesitating  and  idolatrous  trust ! 
Yet  who  are  the  ungrateful  ?  Men  lacking  the  imagination  which 
can  reclothe  the  faded  form  in  its  youthful  beauty — men  dead  to 
the  past — with  no  perception  but  sight  and  touch — to  whom  wo- 
man is  a  flower  and  no  more — fair  to  look  on,  and  sweet  to  pluck 
in  her  pride  "and  nerfume,  but  scarce  possessed  ere  trampled  on 
and  forgotten  !  Genius  alone  treasures  the  perishing  flower  and 
remembers  its  dew  and  fragrance,  and  so,  immemorially  and  well, 
poets  have  been  beloved  of  women. 

I  am  recording  the  passions  of  genius.  Let  me  say  to  you, 
lady  !  (reading  this  tale  understandingly,  for  you  have  been  be- 
loved by  a  poet),  trust  neither  absence,  nor  silence,  nor  untoward 
circumstances!  lie  lias  loved  you  once.  Let  not  your  eye  rest 
on  him  when  you  meet — and,  if  you  speak,  speak  coldly  ! — 
for,  with  a  passion  strengthened  and  embellished  tenfold  by  a 
memory  all  iuiaginatitjii,  he  will  love  you  again  !  The  hours  you 
passed  with  him,  the  caresses  you  e-=)ve  biiii,  the  tears  you  shed, 
and  the  beauty  with  which  you  bewildered  him,  have  been  hal- 
lowed in  poetry,  and  glorified  in  revery  and  dream,  and  he  will 
come  back  to  you,  as  he  would  spring  into  paradise  were  it  so  lost 
and  recovered ! 

Bitt  to  my  story  ! 

Clay's  memory  had  now  become  the  home  of  an  all-absorbing 
passion.  By  a  succession  of  mischances,  or  by  management  so 
adroit  as  never  to  alarm  his  pride,  a  week  passed  over,  and  be 
had  found  no  opportunity  of  speaking  alone  to  the  object  of  hia 


LATER  DAYS.  gsjtj 


adoration.  She  favored  him  in  public,  talked  to  him  at  the  opera, 
leaned  on  his  arm  in  the  crowd,  caressed  his  genius  with  exquisite 
flattery,  and  seemed  at  moments  to  escape  narrowly  from  a  phrase 
too  tender  or  a  subject  that  would  lead  to  the  past — ^yet,  without 
a  violation  of  the  most  palpable  tact,  love  was  still  an  impossible 
topic.  That  he  could  have  held  her  hand  in  his,  unforbidden — 
that  he  could  have  pressed  her  to  his  bosom  while  she  wept — that 
she  could  have  loved  him  ever,  though  but  for  an  hour — seemed 
to  him  sometimes  an  incredible  dream,  sometimes  a  most  pas- 
sionate happiness  only  to  believe.  He  left  her  at  night  to  pace 
the  sands  of  the  bay  till  morning,  remembering — forever  remem- 
bering— the  scene  by  the  fountain  at  Florence  ;  and  he  passed 
his  day  between  her  palace  and  the  picture  of  poor  Incontri,  who 
loved  her  more  helplessly  than  himself,  but  found  a  sympathy  in 
the  growing  melancholy  of  the  poet. 

"  She  has  no  heart,"  said  the  painter ;  but  Clay  had  felt  it  bear 
against  his  own,  and  he  fed  his  love  in  silence  on  that  remembrance. 

They  sat  upon  the  rocks  by  the  gate  of  the  Villa  Real.  The 
sun  was  just  setting,  and,  as  the  waves  formed  near  the  shore  and 
rode  in  upon  the  glassy  swell  of  the  bay,  there  seemed  to  writhe, 
on  each  wavy  back,  a  golden  serpent,  who  broke  on  the  sands  at 
their  feet  in  sparkles  of  fire.  At  a  little  distance  lay  the  swallow- 
like yacht,  in  which  Clay  \jad  threaded  the  Archipelago,  and,  as 
the  wish  to  feel  the  little  craft  bounding  once  more  beneath  him 
was  checked  by  the  anchor-like  heaviness  of  his  heart,  an  eques- 
trian party  stopped  suddenly  on  the  Chiaja. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Clay  !"  said  the  thrilling  voice  of  Julia  Bever- 
ley, "  perhaps  he  will  take  us  over  in  the  yacht.  Sorrento  looks 
so  blue  and  tempting  in  the  distance." 

Without  waiting  for  a  repetition  of  the  wish  he  had  overheard, 


279  HEARTS  AND  LIVES  IN  DANGER. 


Clay  sprang  upon  a  rock,  and  made  signal  for  the  boat,  and,  be- 
fore the  crimson  of  the  departing  day  had  faded  from  the  sky, 
the  fair  Julia  and  her  party  of  cavaliers  were  standing  on  the 
deck  of  the  swift  vessel,  bound  on  a  moonlight  voyage  to  Sorrento, 
and  watching  on  their  lee  the  reddening  ribs  and  lurid  eruption 
of  the  volcano.  The  night  was  Neapolitan,  and  the  air  was  the 
food  of  love. 

It  was  a  voyage  of  silence,  for  the  sweetness  of  life,  in  such  an 
atmosphere  and  in  the  midst  of  that  matchless  bay,  lay  like  a  vo- 
luptuous burthen  in  the  heart,  and  the  ripple  under  the  clearing 
prow  was  language  enough  for  all.  Incontri  leaned  against  the 
mast,  watching  the  moonlit  features  of  the  signora  with  his  mel- 
ancholy but  idolizing  gaze,  and  Clay  lay  on  the  deck  at  her  feet, 
trying,  with  pressed-down  lids,  to  recall  the  tearful  eyes  of  the  Julia 
Beverley  he  had  loved  at  the  fountain. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  breath  of  the  orange  groves  of  Sor- 
rento, stealing  seaward,  ,-iackened  the  way  of  the  little  craft,  and, 
running  in  close  under  the  rocky  foundations  of  the  house  of 
Tasso,  Clay  dropped  his  anchor,  and  landed  his  silent  party  at 
their  haven,  Incontri  was  sent  forward  to  the  inn  to  prepare 
their  apartments,  and,  leaning  on  Clay's  arm  and  her  husband's, 
the  superb  Englishwoman  ascended  to  the  overhanging  balcony  of 
the  dwelling  of  the  Italian  bard,  and,  in  a  few  words  of  eloquent 
sympathy  in  the  homage  paid  by  the  world  to  these  shrines  of 
genius,  added  to  the  overflowing  heart  of  her  gifted  lover  one 
more  intoxicating  drop  of  flattery  and  fascination.  They  strolled 
onward  to  the  inn,  and  he  bade  her  good  night  at  the  gate,  for  he 
could  no  longer  endure  the  totter  of  another's  presence,  and  the 
emotion  stifled  in  his  heart  and  lips. 

I  have  forgotten  the  name  of  that  pleasant  inn   at  Sorrento, 


LATER  DAYS.  273 


built  against  the  side  of  its  mountain  shore,  "vvitb  terraced  orange- 
groves  piled  above  its  roof,  and  the  golden  fruit  nodding  in  at  ita 
windows.  From  the  principal  floor,  you  -will  reraember,  projects 
a  broad  verandah,  jutting  upon  one  of  these  fruit-darkened  alleys. 
If  you  have  ever  slept  there,  after  a  scramble  over  Scaricatnja, 
you  have  risen,  even  from  your  fatigued  slumber,  to  go  out  and 
pace  awhile  that  overhanging  garden,  oppressed  with  the  heavy 
perfume  of  the  orange  flowers.  Strange  that  I  should  forget  the 
name  of  that  inn!  I  thought,  when  the  busy  part  of  my  life 
should  be  well  over,  I  should  go  back  and  die  there. 

The  sea  had  long  closed  over  the  orbed  forehead  of  the  moon, 
and  still  Clay  restlessly  hovered  around  the  garden  of  the  inn. 
Mounting  at  hist  to  the  alley  on  a  level  with  the  principal  cham- 
bers of  the  house,  he  saw,  outlined  in  shadow  upon  the  curtain  of 
a  long  window,  a  female  figure  holding  a  book,  with  her  cheek 
resting  on  her  hand.  He  threw  himself  on  the  grass  and  gazed 
steadily.  The  hand  moved  from  the  cheek,  and  raised  a  pencil 
from  the  table,  and  wrote  upon  the  margin  of  the  volume,  and 
then  the  pencil  was  laid  down,  and  the  slender  fingers  raised  the 
masses  of  fallen  hair  from  the  shoulder,  and  threaded  the  wavy 
ringlets  indolently  as  she  read.  From  the  slightest  motion  of  that 
statuary  hand,  from  the  most  fragmented  outline  of  that  bird-like 
neck,  Clay  would  have  known  Julia  Beverley  ;  and,  as  he  watched 
her  graceful  shadow,  the  repressed  and  pent-up  feelings  of  that 
evening  of  restraint,  fed  as  they  had  been  by  every  voluptuous  in- 
fluence known  beneath  the  moon,  rose  to  a  height  that  absorbed 
brain  and  soul  in  one  wild  tumult  of  emotion.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  to  rush  into  her  presence,  but  at  that  instant  a  footstep  start- 
ed from  the  darkness  of  a  tree,  at  the  extremity  of  the  alley.  He 
paused,  and  the  shadow  arose,  and,  laying  aside  the  book,  leaned 
12* 


274  DESPERATE  VENTURE. 


back,  and  lifted  the  tapering  arms,  and  wound  up  the  long  masses 
of  fallen  hair,  and  then,  kneeling,  remained  a  few  minutes  motion- 
less, with  the  face  buried  in  the  hands. 

Clay  trembled  and  felt  rebuked. 

Once  more  the  flowing  drapery  swept  across  the  curtain,  the 
light  was  extinguished,  and  the  window  thrown  open  to  the  night 
air ;  and  then  all  was  still. 

Clay  walked  to  and  fro  in  an  agitation  bordering  on  delirium. 
*'  I  must  speak  to  her  !"  he  said,  murmuring  audibly,  and  advanc- 
ing toward  the  window.  But  hurried  footsteps  started  again  from 
the  shadow  of  the  pine,  and  he  stopped  to  listen.  All  was  silent, 
and  he  stood  a  moment  pressing  his  hands  on  his  brow,  and  trying 
to  struggle  with  the  wild  impulse  in  his  brain.  His  closed  eyes 
brought  back  instantly  the  unfading  picture  of  Julia  Beverley, 
weeping  on  his  breast  at  the  fountain ;  and,  with  one  rapid  move- 
ment, he  divided  the  curtains  and  stood  breathless  in  her  chamber. 

The  heavy  breathing  of  the  unconscious  husband  fell  like  music 
on  his  ear. 

'^  Julia !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  I  am  here — Er- 
nest Clay !" 

"  You  are  frantic,  Ernest !"  said  a  voice  so  calm  that  it  fell  on 
his  ear  like  an  assurance  of  despair.  "  I  have  no  feeling  for  you 
that  answers  to  this  freedom.     Leave  my  chamber  !" 

"  No !"  said  Clay,  dropping  the  curtain  behind  him,  and  ad- 
vancing into  the  room,  "  wake  your  husband  if  you  will — this  is 
the  only  spot  on  earth  where  I  can  breathe,  and  if  you  are  relent- 
less, here  will  I  die  !  Was  it  false  when  you  said  you  loved  me  ? 
Speak,  Julia  !" 

"  Ernest !"  she  said,  in  a  less  assured  tone,  "  I  have  done  wrong 
not  to  check  this  wild  passion  earlier,  and  I  have  that  to  say  to 


LATER  DAYS.  275 


you  which,  perhaps,  had  better  be  said  now.  I  will  come  to  you 
in  the  garden." 

"  My  vessel  waits,  and  in  an  hour " 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  mistake  me.  But  go !  I  will  follow  in- 
stantly!" 

Vesuvius  was  burning  with  an  almost  smokeless  flame  when 
Clay  stood  again  in  the  night  air,  and  every  object  was  illuminat- 
ed with  the  clearness  of  a  conflagration.  At  the  first  glance 
around,  he  fancied  he  saw  figures  gliding  behind  the  lurid  body  of 
a  pine  opposite  the  window,  but,  in  the  next  moment,  the  curtain 
again  parted,  and  Julia  Beverley,  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  stood  be- 
side him  on  the  verandah. 

"  Stand  back  !"  she  said,  as  he  endeavored  to  put  his  arm 
around  her,  "  I  have  more  than  one  defender  within  call,  and  I 
mu^t  speak  to  you  where  I  am.     "Will  you  listen  to  me,  Ernest  .^" 

Clay's  breast  heaved  ;  but  he  folded  his  arms  and  leaned  against 
the  slender  column  of  the  verandah  in  silence. 

"  Were  it  any  other  person  who  had  so  far  forgotten  himself," 
siie  continued,  "  it  would  be  sufficient  to  say,  ^  I  can  never  love 
you,"  and  leave  my  privacy  to  be  defended  by  my  natural  protec- 
tor. But  I  wish  to  show  you,  Ernest,  not  only  that  you  can 
have  no  hope  in  loving  me,  but  that  you  have  made  me  the  mis- 
chievous woman  I  have  become.  From  an  humble  wife  to  a  dan- 
gerous coquette,  the  change  may  well  seem  startling — but  it  is  of 
3'^our  working." 

"3Iine,  madam  !"  said  Clay,  whose  pride  was  aroused  with  the 
calm  self-possession  and  repulse  of  her  tone  and  manner. 

"  I  have  never  answered  the  letter  you  wrote  me." 

"  Pardon,  and  spare  me !"  said  Clay,  who  remembered,  at  the 
instant  only,  the  whim  under  which  it  was  written. 


276  A  TRYING  INTERVIEW. 

"  It  awoke  me  to  a  new  existence,"  slic  continued,  without 
heedinjr  his  confusion,  "  for  it  first  made  me  aware  that  I  could 
ever  be  the  theme  of  eloquent  admiration.  I  had  never  been 
praised  but  in  idle  compliment,  and  by  those  whose  intellect  I 
despised  ;  and  though,  as  a  girl,  I  had  a  vague  feeling  that  I  was 
slighted  and  unappreciated,  I  yielded,  gradually,  to  the  convic- 
tion that  the  world  was  right,  and  that  women  sung  by  poets,  and 
^.described  in  the  glowing  language  of  romance,  were  of  another 
mould.  I  scarce  reasoned  upon  it.  I  remember,  on  first  arriving 
in  Italy,  drawing  a  comparison  favorable  to  myself,  between  my 
own  beauty  and  the  Fornarina's,  and  the  portraits  of  Laura  and 
Leonora  D'Este  ;  but,  as  I  was  loved  by  neither  painters  nor 
poets,  I  accused  myself  of  presumption,  and,  with  a  sigh,  re- 
turned to  my  humility.  My  life  seemed  more  vacant  than  it 
should  be,  and  I  sometimes  wept  from  an  unhappiness  I  could 
not  define  ;  and  I  once  or  twice  met  persons  who  seemed  to  have 
begun  to  love  me,  and  appreciate  my  beauty  as  I  wished  ]  and,  in 
this  lies  the  history  of  my  heart  up  to  the  time  of  your  writing  to 
me.     That  letter,  Ernest—" 

^'  You  believed  that  I  loved  you,  then  !"  passionately  inter- 
rupted her  listener — "  you  know,  now,  that  T  loved  you  !  Tell  me 
so,  I  implore  you  !" 

*'  My  dear  poet,"  said  the  self-possessed  beauty,  with  a  smile, 
expressive  of  as  much  mischief  as  frankness,  ''  let  us  be  honest ! 
You  never  loved  me  !  I  never  believed  it,  but  for  one  silly  houi-. 
Stay  ! — stay  ! — you  shall  not  answer  me  I  have  not  left  my  bed 
at  this  unseasonable  hour,  to  listen  to  protestations.  At  loast, 
let  me  first  conclude  the  history  of  my  metempsychosis  !  I  can 
tell  it  to  nobody  else  ;  and,  like  the  Ancient  Mariner's,  it  is  a  tale 
that  must  be  told.     Revejions  !     Your  very  brilliant  letter  awoke 


LATER  DAYS.  277 


me  from  the  most  profound  lethargy  by  which  beauty  such  as 
mine  was  ever  overtaken.  A  moment's  inventory  of  my  attrac- 
tions, satisfied  me  that  your  exquisite  description  (written,  I  have 
since  suspected,  to  amuse  an  idle  hour,  but  done,  nevertheless, 
with  the  fine  memory  and  graphic  power  of  genius)  was  neither 
firaciful  nor  over-colored ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  \  felt 
beautiful.  You  are  an  anatomist  of  the  heart ;  and,  I  may  say 
to  you,  that  I  looked  at  my  own  dark  eyes,  and  fine  features  and 
person,  with  the  admiration  and  wonder  of  a  blind  beauty  re- 
stored to  sight,  and  beholding  herself  in  a  mirror.  You  will 
think,  perhaps,  that  love  for  the  writer  of  this  magic  letter  should 
have  been  the  inevitable  sequel.  But  I  am  here  to  avert  the 
consequences  of  my  coquetry,  and  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  1 
forgot  you  in  a  day  !  In  the  almost  insane  desire  to  be  seen  and 
appreciated,,  painted,  sung,  and  loved,  which  took  possession  of 
me  when  the  tumult  of  my  first  feeling  had  passed  away,  your 
self- controlled  and  manageable  passion  seemed  to  me  frivolous 
and  shallow." 

"  Have  you  been  better  loved  r"  coldly  asked  Clay. 

"  I  will  answer  that  question  before  we  part.  I  did  not  suffer 
myself  to  think  of  a  love  that  could  be  returned — for  I  had  hus- 
band and  children  ;  and,  though  I  felt  that  a  mutual  passion,  such 
as  I  could  imagine,  would  have  absorbed,  under  happier  cir- 
cumstances, every  energy  of  my  soul,  I  had  no  disposition  to 
make  wreck  of  another's  happiness  and  honor,  whatever  the 
tamptation.  Still,  I  must  be  loved — I  must  come  out  from'  my 
obscurity  and  shine — I  must  control  the  painter's  pencil,  and 
the  poet's  pen,  and  the  statesman's  scheme — I  must  sun  my 
beauty  in  men's  eyes,  and  be  caressed  and  conspicuous — I  must 
u.se  my  gift,  and  fulfil  my  destiny  !     I  told  my  husband  this.     He 


278  AIMBITION  IN  A  WOMAN. 


secured  my  devotion  to  his  peace  and  honor  forever,  by  giving  me 
unlimited  control  over  his  fortune  and  himself.  We  came  to 
Naples,  and  my  star,  hitherto  clouded  in  its  own  humility,  sprang 
at  once  to  the  ascendant.  The  "  attraction  of  unconscious  beau- 
ty," is  a  poet's  fiction,  believe  me  !  Set  it  down  in  your  books, 
Ernest — we  are  our  own  nomenclators — the  belle  as  well  as  the 
hero  !  I  claimed  to  be  beautiful,  and  queened  it  to  the  top  of  my 
bent — and  all  Naples  is  at  my  feet !  Oh,  Ernest !  it  is  a  de- 
licious power  to  hold  human  happiness  in  your  control — to  be  the 
loadstar  of  eminent  men  and  bright  intellects !  Perhaps  a 
woman  who  is  absorbed  in  one  passion,  finds,  in  her  lover's  cha- 
racter and  fame,  room  enough  for  her  pride  and  her  thirst  for  in- 
fluence ;  but,  to  me,  giving  nothing  in  return  but  the  light  of  my 
eyes,  there  seems,  scarce  in  the  world,  celebrity,  rank,  genius 
enough,  to  limit  my  ambition.  I  would  be  Helen  !  I  would  be 
Mary  of  Scots  !  I  would  have  my  beauty  as  undisputed  and  re- 
nowned as  the  Apollo's  !     Am  I  insane  or  heartless  .?" 

Clay  smiled  at  the  abrupt  naivete  of  the  question,  but  his  eyes 
were  full  of  visible  admiration  of  the  glowing  pictures  before 
him. 

"  You  are  beautiful !"  was  his  answer. 

"  Am  I  not !  Shall  I  be  celebrated  hereafter,  Ernest  ?  I 
should  be  willing  to  grow  old,  if  my  beauty  were  '  in  amber' — if, 
by  some  burning  line  in  your  book,  some  wondrous  touch  of  the 
pencil,  some  bold  novelty  in  sculpture,  my  beauty  would  live  on 
men's  lips  forever  !  Incontri's  picture  is  beautiful,  and  like  ;  but 
it  is  not,  if  you  understand,  a  conception — it  is  not  a  memoir  of 
the  woman,  as  the  Cenci's  is — it  does  not  embody  a  complete 
fame  in  itself,  like  the  '  Bella'  of  Titian,  or  the  ^  Wife  of  Grior- 
gione.'     If  yo2t  loved  me  Ernest — " 


LATER  DAYS.  279 


"If  you  loved  vie,  Julia !"  echoed  Clay,  with  a  tone  rather  of 
mockery  than  sincerity. 

"  Ah,  hut  you  threw  me  away  ;  and,  even  with  my  own  con- 
sent, I  could  never  he  recovered  !  Believe  me,  Ernest,  there 
never  was  a  coquette,  who,  in  some  one  of  her  early  preferences, 
had  not  made  a  desperate  and  single  venture  of  her  whole  heart's 
devotion.  That  wrecked — she  was  lost  to  love  !  I  embarked  with 
you,  soul  and  heart ;  and  you  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  chance  of 
wind,  a  freight  that  no  tide  could  bring  to  port  again  !" 

"  You  forget  the  obstacles." 

"  A  poet !  and  talk  of  obstacles  in  love  !  Did  you  even  ask 
me  to  run  away  with  you,  Ernest !  I  would  have  gone  !  Ay — 
coldly  as  I  talk  to  you  now,  I  would  have  followed  you  to  a  hovel 
— for  it  was  first  love  to  me.  Had  it  been  first  love  to  both  of 
us,  I  should  now  be  your  wife — sharer  of  your  fame  !  And,  oh  ' 
how  jealous  !" 

"  With  your  beauty,  jealous  P^ 

"  Not  of  flesh-and-blood  women,  Ernest !  With  a  wife's  op- 
portunities, I  could  outcharm,  with  half  my  beauty,  the  whole 
troop  of  Circe.  I  was  thinking  of  the  favors  of  your  pen  !  Whom 
would  I  let  you  describe  !  What  eyes,  what  hair,  what  form  but 
mine — what  character,  what  name,  would  I  ever  sufier  you  to 
make  immortal !  Paul  Veronese  had  a  wife  with  my  avarice.  In 
his  hundred  pictures,  there  is  the  same  blue-eyed,  golden-haired 
woman,  as  much  linked  to  his  fame  as  Laura  to  Petrarch's.  If 
he  had  drawn  her  but  once,  she  would  have  been  known  as  the 
woman  Paul  Veronese  painted!  She  is  known  now  as  the  woman 
he  loved.     Delicious  immortality  !" 

"  Yet,  she  could  not  have  exacted  it.  That  would  have  re- 
quired an   intellect  which    looked  abroad  ;    and  poets  love  no 


280  A  LOVER  WITHIN  CALL. 


women  wlio  are  not  like  birds — content  with  the  summer  around 
them,  but  with  every  thought  in  their  nest.  Paul  Veronese's 
Bionda,  with  her  soft,  mild  eyes,  and  fair  hair,  is  the  very  type 
of  such  a  woman  ;  and  she  would  not  have  foregone  a  caress  for 
twenty  immortalities." 

"  May  I  ask,  what  was  my  attraction  then  ?"  said  the  proud 
beauty,  with  a  tone  of  pique. 

"  Julia  Beverley,  unconscious  and  unintcllectual  !"  answered 
Clay,  drawing  on  his  gloves  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  got 
through  with  an  interview.  ''  You  have  explained  your  '  me- 
tempsychosis,' but  I  was  in  love  with  the  form  you  have  cast  off. 
The  night  grows  chill.     Sweet  dreams  to  you  !" 

"  Stay,  Mr.  Clay  !  You  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  '  better 
loved,'  and  I  promised  you  an  answer.  What  think  you  of  a 
lover  who  has  forgotten  the  occupation  that  gave  him  bread, 
abandoned  his  ambition,  and,  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  is  an  un- 
rewarded and  hopeless  watcher  beneath  my  window  .'^" 

"  To-night  excepted,"  said  Clay,  looking  around. 

"Incontri !"  called  Mrs.  Brown,  without  raising  her  voice. 

Clay  started  and  frowned,  as  the  painter  sprang  from  the 
shadow  of  the  pine-tree  which  had  before  attracted  his  attention. 
Falling  on  his  knee,  the  unhappy  lover  kissed  the  jewelled  fingers 
extended  to  him  ;  and,  giving  Clay  his  hand  in  rising,  the  poet 
sprang  back,  for  he  had  clasped  the  handle  of  a  stiletto  ! 

^'  Fear  not — she  does  not  love  you  !"  said  Incontri,  remarking 
his  surprise,  and  concealing  the  weapon  in  his  sleeve. 

*'  I  was  destined  to  get  cured  of  my  love  either  way,"  said 
Clay,  bowing  himself  off  the  vcrandali  with  a  shudder  and  half  a 
smile. 

The  curtain  closed,  at  the  same  moment,  over  the  retreating 


LATER  DAYS.  ggl 


form  of  Julia  Beverley ;  and  so  turned  another  leaf  of  Clay's 
voluminous  book  of  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Clay  threw  the  volume  aside,  in  which  he  had  been  reading, 
and  taking  up  "  the  rod  book,"  looked  out  for  the  county  address 
of  Sir  Harry  Freer,  the  exponent  (only)  of  Lady  Fanny  Freer, 
who,  though  the  "  nicest  possible  creature,"  is  not  the  heroine 
of  this  story.  Sir  Harry's  ancestral  domain  turned  out  to  be  a 
portion  of  the  earth's  surface,  in  that  county  of  England  where 
the  old  gentry  look  down  upon  very  famous  lords  as  too  new,  and 
proportionately  upon  all  other  families  that  have  not  degenerated 
since  William  the  Conqueror. 

Sir  Harry  had  married  an  Earl's  daughter ;  but,  as  the  earl- 
dom was  only  the  fruit  of  two  generations  of  public  and  poli- 
tical eminence,  Sir  Harry  was  not  considered  in  Cheshire  as 
having  made  more  than  a  tolerable  match  ;  and,  if  she  passed  for 
a  "  Cheshire  cheese"  in  London,  he  passed  for  but  the  rind 
in  the  county.  In  the  county,  therefore,  there  was  a  lord 
paramount  of  Freer  Hall,  and  in  town,  a  lady  paramount  of 
Brook-street ;  and  it  was  under  the  town  dynasty,  that  Miss 
Blanche  Beaunn  was  invited  up  from  Cheshire  to  pass  a  first 
winter  in  London — Miss  Beaufin  being  the  daughter  of  a  descend- 
ant of  a  Norman  retainer  of  the  first  Sir  Harry,  and  the  relative 
position  of  tho  families  having  been  rigidly  kept  up  to  the  exisfr 
hig  epoch. 

The  address  found  in  the  red  book  was  described  in  the  follow- 
ing letter : 


2S2  MATERIAL  OF  A  FRIENDSHIP. 


**  Dear  Lady  Fanny — If  you  have  anything  beside  the  ghost 
room  vacant  at  Freer  Hall,  I  will  run  down  to  you.  Should  you, 
by  chance,  be  alone,  ask  up  the  curate  for  a  week,  to  keep  Sir 
Harry  off  my  hands ;  and,  as  you  don't  flirt,  provide  me  with 
somebody  more  pretty  than  yourself,  for  our  mutual  security. 
As  my  autograph  sells  for  eighteen  pence,  you  will  excuse  the 
brevity  of  "  Yours,  truly, 

"  Ernest  Clay. 

"  N.E. — Tell  me,  in  your  answer,  if  Blanche  Beaufin  is  with- 
in a  morning's  ride." 

Lady  Fanny  was  a  warm-hearted,  extravagant,  beautiful  crea- 
ture of  impulse — a  passionate  friend  of  Clay's,  (for  such  women 
there  are,)  without  a  spice  of  flirtation.  She  was  a  perennial 
belle  in  London  ;  and  he  had  begun  his  acquaintance  with  her, 
by  throwing  himself  at  her  head,  in  the  approved  fashion — ^in  love 
to  the  degree  of  rose-asking  and  sonnet-writing.  As  she  did  not 
laugh  when  he  sighed,  however,  but  only  told  him  very  seriously, 
that  ^e  was  not  a  bit  in  love  with  him,  and  thought  he  was 
thowing  away  his  time,  he  easily  forgave  her  insensibility,  and 
they  became  very  warm  allies.  Spoiled  favorite,  as  he  was,  of 
London  society.  Clay  had  qualities  for  a  very  sincere  friendship  ; 
and  Lady  Fanny,  full  of  irregular  talent,  had  also  a  strong  vein 
of  common  sense,  and  perfectly  understood  him.  This  explana- 
tion to  the  reader.  It  would  have  saved  some  trouble  and  pain, 
if  it  had  been  made  by  some  good  angel  to  Sir  Harry  Freer. 

As  the  London  coach  rattled  under  the  bridged  gate  of  the 
gloomy  old  town  of  Chester,  Lady  Fanny's  dashing  ponies  were 
almost  on  their  haunches,  with  her  impetuous  pull-up  at  the 
hotel ;  and,  returning  with  a  nod  the  coachman's  respectful  bow, 


LATER  DATS.  2S3 


she  put  her  long  whip  in,  at  the  coach-window,  to  shake  hands 
with  Clay,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  they  were  again  off  the  pave- 
ments, and  taking  the  road  at  her  ladyship's  usual  speed. 

"  Steady,  Flash  !  steady  !"  (she  ran  on,  talking  to  Clay,  and 
her  ponies,  in  the  same  breath  ;)  "  doleful  ride  down,  isn't  it  ? — 
(keep  up,  Tom,  you  villain !) — very  good  of  you  to  come,  I'm 
sure,  dear  Ernest,  and  you'll  stay — how  long  will  you  stay  ? — • 
(down,  Flash) — oh.  Miss  Beaufin  !  I've  something  to  say  to  you 
about  Blanche  Beaufin  !  I  didn't  answer  your  nota  bene — (go 
along>  Tom  !  that  pony  wants  blooding) — because,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  it's  a  delicate  subject  at  Freer  Hall,  and  I  would  rather 
talk  than  write  about  it.  You  see — (will  you  be  done,  Flash  !) — 
the  Beaufins,  though  very  nice  people,  and  Blanche  quite  a  love 
— (go  along,  lazy  Tom  !) — the  Beaufins,  I  say,  are  rated  rather 
crockery  in  Cheshire.  And  I  am  ashamed  to  own,  really  quite 
ashamed,  I  have  not  been  near  them  in  a  month.  Shameful,  isn't 
it  ?  There's  good  action,  Ernest !  Look  at  that  nigh  pony ; 
not  a  blemish  in  him  ;  and  such  a  goer  in  single  harness !  "Well, 
I'll  go  around  by  the  Beaufins  now." 

"  Pray,  consider.  Lady  Fanny !"  interrupted  Clay,  deprecat- 
ingly,  "  eighteen  hours  in  a  coach." 

"  Not  to  go  in  !  oh,  not  to  go  in !  Blanche  is  very  ill.  and 
sees  nobody  ;  and — (come,  Tom  !  come  !) — I  only  heard  of  it 
this  morning — (there's  for  your  laziness,  you  stupid  horse  !) — 
We'll  just  call  and  ask  how  she  is,  though  Sir  Harry — " 

"  Is  she  very  ill,  then  .^"  asked  Clay,  with  a  concern  which 
made  Lady  Fanny  turn  her  eyes  from  her  ponies'  ears  to  look  at 
him. 

"  They  say,  very  !  Of  course.  Sir  Harry  can't  forbid  a  visit 
to  the  sick." 


284  A  LADY'S  TEAM. 


"  Surely  he  does  not  forbid  you  to  call  on  Blanche  Beaufin!" 

"  Not  '  forbid'  jDrecisely  ;  that  wouldn't  do — (gently,  sweet 
Flash  !  now,  Tom  !  now,  lazy  !  trot  fair  through  the  hollow  !) — • 
hut,  I  invited  her  to  pass  the  winter  with  me,  without  consulting 
him,  and  he  liked  it  well  enough,  till  he  got  back  among  his 
stupid  neighbors — (well  done,  Flash  ! — plague  take  that  bother- 
ing whipple-tree  !) — and  they,  and  their  awkward  daughters, 
whom  I  might  have  invited — (whoa  !  Flash  !) — if  I  had  wanted 
a  menagerie,  set  him  to  looking  into  her  pedigree.  There's  the 
house  ;  the  old  house,  with  the  vines  over  it,  yonder !  So  then, 
Sir  Harry — such  a  sweet  girl,  too — set  his  face  against  the 
acquaintance.  Here  we  are  ! — (Whoa,  boys  !  whoa  !)  Hold  the 
reins  a  moment,  while  I  run  in  !" 

More  to  quell  a  vague  and  apprehensive  feeling  of  remorse, 
than  to  while  away  idle  time.  Clay  passed  the  reins  back  to  the 
stripling  in  grey  livery  behind,  and  walked  round  Lady  Fanny's 
ponies,  expressing  his  admiration  of  them,  and  the  turn-out  al- 
together. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  who  seemed  to  have  caught  some  of 
the  cleverness  of  his  mistress,  for  he  scarce  looked  fourteen, 
"  they're  a  touch  above  anything  in  Cheshire  !  Look  at  the 
forehand  of  that  nigh  'un,  sir  ! — arm  and  withers  like  a  grey- 
hound, and  yet,  what  a  quarter  for  trotting,  sir  !  Quite  the 
right  thing,  all  over  !  Carries  his  flag  that  way  quite  nat'ral ; 
never  was  nick'd,  sir  !  Did  you  take  notice,  begging  your  par- 
don, sir,  how  milady  put  through  that  hollow  ?  Wasn't  it  fine, 
sir  .'*  T'other's  a  goodish  nag,  too,  but  nothing  to  Flabh  ;  can't 
spread,  somehow  ;  that's  Sir  Harry's  picking  up,  and  never  was  a 
match  ;  no  blood  in  Tom,  sir  !  Look  at  his  fetlock  ;  underbred, 
hut  a  jimpy  nag  for  a  roadster,  if  a  man  wanted  work  out  on 


LATER  DAYS.  «^g5 


liim.  See  Low  lie  blows,  sir,  and  Flash  as  still  as  a  stopped 
wheel !" 

Lady  Fanny's  reappearance  at  the  door  of  the  house,  inter- 
rupted her  page's  eulogy  on  the  hays ;  and,  with  a  very  altered 
expression  of  countenance,  she  resumed  the  reins,  and  drove 
slowly  homeward. 

"She  is  very  ill — very  ill !  but,  she  wishes  to  see  you,  and  you 
must  go  there  ;  but  not  to-morrow.  She  is  passing  a  crisis  now, 
and,  her  physician  says,  will  be  easier,  if  not  better,  after  to- 
morrow. Poor  girl !  Dear  Blanche  !  Ah,  Clay  !  but  no — no 
matter ;  I  shall  talk  about  it  with  more  composure,  by-and-bye — 
poor  Blanche  !" 

Lady  Fanny's  tears  rained  upon  her  two  hands,  as  she  let  out 
her  impatient  horses,  to  be  sooner  at  home  ;  and,  in  half  an 
hour.  Clay  was  alone  in  his  luxurious  quarters,  under  Sir  Harry's 
roof,  with  two  hours  to  dinner,  and  more  than  thoughts  enough, 
and  very  sad  ones,  to  make  him  glad  of  time  and  solitude. 

Freer  Hall  was  full  of  company — Sir  Harry's  company ;  and 
Clay,  with  the  quiet  assurance  of  a  London  star,  used  to  the 
domina'tt,  took  his  station  by  Lady  Fanny,  on  entering  the  draw- 
ing-room, and,  when  dinner  was  announced,  gave  her  his  arm, 
without  troubling  himself  to  remember  that  there  was  a  baronet 
who  had  claim  to  the  honor,  and  of  whom  he  must  simply  make  a 
mortal  enemy.  At  table,  the  conversation  ran  mainly  in  Sir 
Harry's  vein — hunting  ;  and  Clay  did  not  even  take  a  listener's 
part ;  but,  in  a  low  tone,  talked  of  London  to  Lady  Fanny — ^her 
ladyship  (unaccountably  to  her  husband  and  his  friends,  who 
were  used  to  furnish  her  more  merriment  than  revery)  peniiive, 
and  out  of  spirits.  With  the  announcement  of  coiFee  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, Clay  disappeared  with  her,  and  their  evening  was  tete^ 


|g§6  FOOD  FOR  PERVERSION. 


a-ttte  ;  for  Sir  Harry  and  his  friends  were  tliree-bottlo  men,  and 
commonly  bade  good-night  to  ladies  when  the  ladies  left  the 
table.  If  there  had  been  a  second  thought  in  the  convivial 
squirearchy,  they  would  have  troubled  their  heads  less  about  a 
man  who  did  not  exhibit  the  first  symptom  of  love  for  the  wife — 
civility  to  the  husband.  But,  this  is  a  hand-to-mouth  world,  in 
the  way  of  knowledge  ;  and  nothing  is  stored  but  experiences, 
lifetime  by  lifetime. 

Another  day  passed,  and  another,  and  mystery  seemed  the 
ruling  spirit  of  the  hour,  for  there  were  enigmas  for  all.  Re- 
gularly, morning  and  afternoon,  the  high-stepping  ponies  were 
ordered  round,  and  Lady  Fanny  (with  Mr.  Clay  for  company  to 
the  gate)  visited  the  Beaufins,  now  against  positive  orders  from 
the  irate  Sir  Harry  ;  and  daily,  Clay's  reserve  with  his  beautiful 
hostess  increased,  and  his  distress  of  mind  with  it ;  for  both  he 
and  she  were  alarmed  with  the  one  piece  of  unexplained  intel- 
ligence between  them — Miss  Bcaufin  would  see  Mr.  Clay  when 
she  would  be  dying  !  Not  before — for  worlds,  not  before — and, 
of  the  physician  constantly  in  attendance,  (Lady  Fanny  often 
present,)  Clay  knew  that  the  poor  girl  besought,  with  an  eager- 
ness to  the  last  degree  touching  and  earnest,  to  know  when  hope 
could  be  given  over.  She  was  indulged,  unquestioned,  as  a  dying 
daughter  ;  and,  whatever  might  be  her  secret.  Lady  Fanny  pro- 
mised, that,  at  the  turning  hour,  come  what  would  of  distressing  and 
painful,  she  would  herself  come  with  Mr.  Clay  to  her  death-bed. 

Sir  Harry  and  his  fiionds  were  in  the  billiard-room,  and  Lady 
Fanny  and  Clay  breakfasting  together,  when  a  note  was  brought 
in  by  one  of  the  footmen,  who  waited  for  an  answer. 

"  Say  that  I  will  come,"  said  Lady  Fanny  ;  and — stay,  George ! 
See  that  my  ponies  are  harnessed  immediately  ;  put  the  head  of 


LATER  DAYS.  237 


the  phaeton  up,  and  let  it  stand  in  the  coach-house.  And,  Tim- 
son  !"  she  added,  to  the  butler,  who  stood  at  the  side-table,  "  if 
Sir  Harry  inquires  for  me,  say  that  I  am  gone  to  visit  a  sick 
friend." 

Lady  Fanny  walked  to  the  window.  It  rained  in  torrents. 
There  was  no  need  of  explanation  to  Clay ;  he  understood  the 
note,  and  its  meaning. 

"  The  offices  connect  with  the  stables,  by  a  covered  way,"  she 
said,  "  and  we  will  get  in  there.  Shall  you  be  ready  in  a  feW 
minutes  .?" 

"  Quite,  dear  Lady  Fanny  !     I  am  ready  now." 

"  The  rain  is  rather  fortune ^e  than  otherwise,"  she  added,  in 
going  out,  "  for  Sir  Plany  will  not  see  us  go  ;  and  he  might 
throw  an  obstacle  in  the  way,  and  make  it  difficult  to  manage. 
Wrap  well  up,  Ernest !" 

The  butler  looked  inquisitively  at  Clay  and  his  mistress  ;  but, 
both  were  pre-occupied,  and,  in  ten  minutes,  the  rapid  phaeton 
was  on  its  way,  the  ponies  pressing  on  the  bit,  as  if  the  eagerness 
of  the  two  hearts  beating  behind  them,  was  communicated  through 
the  reins  ;  and  Lady  Fanny,  contrary  to  her  wont,  driving  in  un- 
encouraging  silence.  The  three  or  four  miles  between  Freer 
Hall  and  their  destination,  were  soon  traversed ;  and  under  the 
small  jporte-cochere  of  the  ancient  mansion,  the  ponies  stood 
panting  and  sheltered. 

"  Kind  Lady  Fanny  !  God  bless  you  !"  said  a  tall,  dark  man, 
of  a  very  striking  exterior,  coming  out  to  the  phaeton.  "  And 
you,  sir,  are  welcome  !" 

They  followed  him  into  the  little  parlor,  where  Clay  was  pre- 
sented by  Lady  Fanny  to  the  mother  of  Miss  Beaufin — a  singu- 
larly, yet   sadly  sweet  woman,  in  voice,  person,  and    address  j 


188  LOVE  IN  DEATH. 


to  the  old,  white-haired  yicar,  and  to  the  physician,  who  re- 
turned his  bow  with  a  cold  and  very  formal  salute. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  said  he,  "  and,  at  the  request 
of  Miss  Beaufin,  Lady  Fanny  and  this  gentleman  will  please  go 
to  her  chamber  without  us.  I  can  trust  your  Ladyship  to  see 
that  the  remainder  of  life  is  not  shortened  nor  harrassed  by  need- 
less agitation." 

Clay's  heart'  beat  violently.  At  the  extremity  of  the  long  and 
dimly-lighted  passage,  thrown  open  by  the  father  to  Lady  Fanny, 
he  saw  a  white-curtained  bed — the  death-bed,  he  knew,  of  the  gay 
and  fair  flower  of  a  London  season,  the  wonder  and  idol  of  diffi- 
cult fashion,  and  unadmiring  rank.  Blanche  Beaufin  had  ap- 
peared, like  a  marvel,  in  the  brilliant  circles  of  Lady  Fanny's 
acquaintance — a  distinguished,  unconscious,  dazzling  girl,  of 
whom  her  fair  introductress  (either  in  mischief  or  good  nature) 
would  say  nothing,  but  that  she  was  her  neighbor  in  Cheshire  ; 
though  all  that  nature  could  lavish,  on  one  human  creature,  seem- 
ed hers,  with  all  that  high  birth  could  stamp  on  mien,  counte- 
nance, and  manners.  Clay  paid  her  his  tribute  with  the  rest — 
the  hundred  who  flattered  and  followed  her — ^but,  she  was  a  proud 
girl,  and,  though  he  seized  every  opportunity  of  being  near  her, 
nothing  in  her  manner  betrayed  to  him  that  he  was  not  counted 
among  the  hundred.  A  London  season  fleets  fast,  and,  taken  by 
surprise  with  Lady  Fanny's  early  departure  for  the  country,  her 
farewells  were  written  on  the  corners  of  cards  ;  and,  with  a  secret 
deep  buried  in  the  heart,  she  was  brought  back  to  the  retirement 
of  home. 

Brief  history  of  the  breaking  of  a  heart ! 

Lady  Fanny  started  slightly  on  entering  the  chamber.  The 
Hck  girl  sat  propped  in  an  arm-chair,  dressed  in  snowy  white  ; 


LATER  DAYS.  28Q 


even  her  slight  foot  appearing  beneath  the  edge  of  her  dress,  in  a 
slipper  of  white  .satin.  Her  brown  hair  fell  in  profuse  ringlets 
over  her  shoulders  ;  but  it  was  gathered  behind  into  a  knot,  and 
from  it  depended  a  white  veil,  the  diamonds  which  fastened  it 
pressing,  to  the  glossy  curve  of  her  head,  a  slender  stem  of  orange 
flowers.  Her  features  were  of  that  slight  mould  which  shows 
sickness  by  little  except  higher  transparency  of  the  blue  veins, 
and  brighter  redness  in  the  lips ;  and,  as  she  smiled  with  suffused 
cheek,  and  held  out  her  gloved  hand  to  Clay,  with  a  vain  effort 
to  articulate,  he  passed  his  hands  across  his  eyes,  and  looked  in- 
quiringly at  his  friend.  He  had  expected,  though  he  had  never 
realized,  that  she  would  be  altered.  She  looked  almost  as  he  had 
left  her.  He  remembered  her  only  as  he  had  oftenest  seen  her — 
dressed  for  ball  or  pai-ty ;  and,  but  for  the  solemnity  of  the  pre- 
paration he  had  gone  through,  he  might  have  thought  his  feelings 
had  been  played  upon,  only  ;  that  Blanche  Beaufin  was  well — still 
beautiful  and  v/ell ;  that  he  should  again  see  her  in  the  brilliant 
circles  of  London  ;  still  love  her  as  he  secretly  did,  and  receive 
what  he  now  felt  trould  be,  under  any  circumstances,  a  gift  of 
heaven — the  assurance  of  a  return.  This,  and  a  world  of  con- 
fused emotion,  tumultuously,  and  in  an  instant,  rushed  through 
his  heart ;  for  there  are  moments  in  which  we  live  lives  of  feel- 
ing and  thought — moments,  glances,  which  supply  years  of  secret 
or  bitter  memory. 

This  is  but  a  sketch — but  an  outline  of  a  tale  over  true.  Were 
there  space — were  there  time,  to  follow  out  the  traverse  thread 
of  its  mere  mournful  incidents,  we  might  write  the  reverse  side 
of  a  leaf  of  life  ever  read  partially  and  wrong — the  life  of  the 
gay  and  unlamenting.  Sickness  and  death  had  here  broken 
down  a  wall  of  adamant,  between  two  creatures  every  way  formed 
13 


290  HIGH-LIFE  TRAMMELS. 


for  each  other.  In  health,  and  ordinary  regularity  of  circum* 
stances,  they  would  have  loved  as  truly  and  deeply  as  those  in 
humbler,  or  in  more  fortunate  relative  positions  ;  but  they,  pro- 
bably, would  never  have  been  united.  It  is  the  system — the 
necessary  system,  of  the  class  to  which  Clay  belonged,  to  turn 
adroitly  and  gayly  off  every  shaft  to  the  heart ;  to  take  advantage 
of  no  opening  to  affection  ;  to  smother  all  preference  that  would 
lead  to  an  interchange  of  hallowed  vows  ;  to  profess  insensibility 
equally  polished  and  hardened,  on  the  subject  of  pure  love ;  to 
forswear  marriage,  and  make  of  it  a  mock  and  an  impossibility. 
And  whose  handiwork  is  this  unnatural  order  of  society  }  Was 
it  established  by  the  fortunate  and  joyous — by  the  wealthy  and 
untrammelled,  at  liberty  to  range  the  world  if  they  liked,  and 
marry  where  they  chose,  but,  preferring  gaiety  to  happiness, 
and  lawless  liberty  to  virtuous  love  ?  No,  indeed  !  not  by  these  ! 
Show  me  one  such  man,  and  I  will  show  you  a  rare  perversion 
of  common  feeling — a  man,  who,  under  any  circumstances, 
would  have  been  cold  and  eccentric.  It  is  not  to  those  able  to 
marry  where  they  will,  that  the  class  of  London  gay  men  owe 
their  system  of  mocking  opinions.  But  it  is  to  the  companions  of 
fortunate  men— gifted,  like  them,  in  all  but  fortune,  and  holding 
their  caste  by  the  tenure  of  forsworn  ties — abiding  in  the  para- 
dise of  aristocracy,  with  pure  love  for  the  forbidden  fruit !  Are 
such  men  insensible  to  love  ?  Has  this  forbidden  joy — this  one 
thing  hallowed  in  a  bad  world — has  it  no  temptation  for  the  gay 
man  ?  Is  his  better  nature  quite  dead  within  him  ?  Is  he  never 
ill  and  sad,  where  gaiety  cannot  reach  him  ?  Does  he  envy  the 
rich  young  lord  (his  friend)  everything  but  his  blushing  and  pure 
bride  ?  Is  he  poet  or  wit,  or  the  mirror  of  taste  and  elegance, 
yet  incapable  of  discerning  the  qualities  of  a  true  love — the  celes- 


LATER  DAYS.  291 


tis.1  refinement  of  a  maiden  passion,  lawful  and  fearless,  devoted 
because  spotless,  and  enduring  because  made  up  half  of  prayer 
and  gratitude  to  her  Maker  ?  Does  he  not  know  distinctions  of 
feeling,  as  he  knows  character  in  a  play  ?  Does  he  not  discrimi- 
nate between  purity  and  guilt  in  love,  as  he  does  in  his  nice  judg- 
ment of  honor  and  taste  ?  Is  he  gayly  dead  to  the  deepest  and 
most  elevated  cravings  of  nature — love^  passionate,  single-heart- 
ted,  and  holy  Trust  me,  there  is  a  bitterness  whose  depths  we 
can  only  fathom  by  refinement !  To  move  among  creatures  em- 
bellished and  elevated  to  the  last  point  of  human  attainment, 
lovely  and  unsullied,  and  know  yourself,  (as  to  all  but  gazing  on, 
and  appreciating  them,)  a  pariah  and  an  outcast — to  breathe 
their  air,  and  be  the  companion  and  apparent  equal  of  those  for 
whose  bliss  they  were  created,  and  to  whom  they  are  ofi'ered  for 
choice,  with  the  profusion  of  flowers  in  a  garden,  (the  chooser 
and  possessor  of  the  brightest,  your  inferior  in  all  else,) — to  live 
thus,  to  suffer  thus,  and  still  smile  and  call  it  choice,  and  your 
own  way  of  happiness — this  is  mockery,  indeed !  He  who  now 
stood  in  the  death-room  of  Blanche  Beaufin,  had  felt  it,  in  its  bit- 
terest intensity ! 

"  Mr.  Clay  ! — Ernest !"  said  the  now  pale  creature,  breaking 
the  silence,  with  a  strong  effort,  for  he  had  dropped  on  his  knee 
at  her  side,  in  ungovernable  emotion,  and,  as  yet,  had  but  articu- 
lated her  name — "  Ernest  !  I  have  but  little  time  for  anything — 
least  of  all,  for  disguise  or  ceremony.  I  am  assured  that  I  am 
d}ing.  I  am  convinced,"  she  added,  firmly,  taking  up  the  watch 
that  lay  beside  her,  "  that  I  have  been  told  the  truth,  and  that, 
when  this  hour-hand  comes  round  again,  I  shall  be  dead.  I  will 
conceal  nothing.     They  have  given  me  cordials  that  will  support 


292  MARRIAGE  ON  A  DEATH-BED. 


me  one  hour,  and,  for  that  hour — and  for  eternity — I  wish — ii   i 
may  be  so  blest — if  God  will  permit — to  be  your  wife  !" 

Lady  Fanny  Freer  rose,  and  came  to  her  with  Yupid  steps ; 
and  Clay  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  in  a  passion  of  tears  exclaimed, 
''  Oh,  God  !  can  this  be  true  !" 

"Answer  me,  quickly  !"  she  continued,  in  a  voice  raised,  bul 
breaking  through  sobs — "  an  hour  is  short  ;  oh,  how  short,  when 
it  is  the  last !  I  cannot  stay  with  you  long,  were  you  a  thousand 
times  mine.  Tell  me,  Ernest ! — shall  it  be  ? — shall  I  be  wedded 
ere  I  die  ? — wedded  now  ?" 

A  passionate  gesture  to  Lady  Fanny,  was  all  the  answer  Clay 
could  make  ;  and,  in  another  moment,  the  aged  vicar  was  in  the 
chamber,  with  her  parents  and  the  physician — to  all  of  whom  a 
few  words  explained  a  mystery  which  her  bridal  attire  had  already 
half  unravelled. 

Blanche  spoke  quickly,  "  Shall  he  proceed,  Ernest  ?" 

Her  prayer-book  was  open  on  her  knee,  and  Clay  gave  it  to 
the  vicar,  who,  with  a  quick  sense  of  sympathy,  and  with  but  a 
glance  at  the  weeping  and  silent  parents,  read,  without  delay,  the 
hallowed  ceremonial. 

Clay's  countenance  elevated  and  cleared  as  he  proceeded,  and 
Blanche,  with  her  large  suffused  eyes  fixed  on  his,  listened  with  a 
smile,  serene,  but  expressive  of  unspeakable  rapture.  Her  beauty 
had  never  been  so  radiant,  so  angelic.  In  heaven,  on  her  bridal 
night,  beatified  spirit  as  she  was,  she  could  not  have  been  more 
beautiful ! 

One  instant  of  embarrassment  occurred,  unobserved  by  the 
dying  bride,  but,  with  the  thoughtfulness  of  womanly  generosity, 
Lady  Fanny  had  foreseen  it,  and,  drawing  off  her  own  wedding- 
ring,  she  passed  it  into  Ernest's  hand  ere  the  interruption  became 


LATER   DAYS.  293 


apparent.  Alas !  the  emaciated  hand  ungloved  to  receive  it ! 
The  wasted  finger  pointed,  indeed,  to  heaven !  Till  then.  Clay 
had  felt  almost  in  a  dream.  But  here  was  suffering — sickness — • 
death  !  This  told  what  the  hectic  brightness,  and  the  faultless 
features,  would  fain  deny — what  the  fragrant  and  still  unwither- 
ing  flowers  upon  her  temples  would  seem  to  mock  !  But  the  hec- 
tic was  already  fading,  and  the  flowers  outlived  the  light  in  the 
dark  eyes  they  shaded  ! 

The  vicar  joined  their  hands  with  the  solemn  adjuration, 
"  Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asun- 
der ;"  and  Clay  rose  from  his  knees,  and  pressing  his  first  kiss 
upon  her  lips,  strained  her  passionately  to  his  heart. 

"  INIine  in  heaven  !"  she  cried,  giving  way  at  last  to  her  tears, 
as  she  closed  her  slight  arms  over  his  neck  ;  "  mine  in  heaven  ! 
Is  it  not  so,  mother  !  father  !  is  he  not  mine  now  ?  There  is  no 
giving  in  marriage  in  heaven,  but  the  ties,  hallowed  here,  are  not 
forgotten  there  !  Tell  me  they  are  not !  Speak  to  me,  my  hus- 
band !  Press  me  to  your  heart,  Ernest !  Your  wife — oh,  I 
thank  God!" 

The  physician  sprang  forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  pulse. 
She  fell  back  upon  her  pillows,  and,  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips, 
and  the  tears  still  wet  upon  her  long  and  drooping  lashes,  lay 
dead. 

Lady  Fanny  took  the  mother  by  the  arm,  and,  with  a  gesture 
to  the  father  and  the  physician  to  follow,  they  retired  and  left  the 
bridegroom  alone. 

Life  is  full  of  sudden  transitions  ;  and  the  next  event  in  that  of 
Ernest  Clay,  was  a  duel  with  Sir  Harry  Freer — if  the  Morning 
Post  was  to  bo  believed — "  occasioned  by  the  indiscretion  of  Lady 


294  AN  ELECTRIC  xMEETLYG. 


Fanny,  who,  in  a  giddy  moment,  it  appears,  had  given  to  her  ad 
mirer,  Sir  Harry's  opponent,  her  wedding-ring  !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Late  one  night  in  June  two  gentlemen  arrived  at  the  Villa 
Hotel  of  the  Baths  of  Lucca.  They  stopped  the  low  biitzka  in 
which  they  travelled,  and,  leaving  a  servant  to  make  arrangements 
for  their  lodging,  linked  arms  and  strolled  up  the  road  toward  the 
banks  of  the  Lima.  The  moon  was  chequered  at  the  moment 
with  the  poised  leaf  of  a  tree-top,  and,  as  it  passed  from  her  face, 
she  arose  and  stood  alone  in  the  steel-blue  of  the  unclouded  hea- 
vens— a  luminous  and  tremulous  plate  of  gold.  And  you  know 
how  beautiful  must  have  been  the  night,  a  June  night  in  Italy, 
with  a  moon  at  the  full ! 

A  lady,  with  a  servant  following  her  at  a  little  distance,  passed 
the  travellers  on  the  bridge  of  the  Lima.  She  dropped  her  veil 
and  went  by  in  silence.  But  the  Freyherr  felt  the  arm  of  his 
friend  tremble  within  his  own. 

"  Do  you  know  her,  then  ?"  asked  Von  Leisten. 

"  By  the  thrill  in  my  veins  we  have  met  before,"  said  Clay  ; 
"  but  whether  this  involuntary  sensation  was  pleasurable  or  painful, 
I  have  not  yet  decided.  There  are  none  I  care  to  meet — none 
who  can  be  here."  He  added  the  last  few  words  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  and  sadly. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  base  of  the  mountain,  busy, 
each,  with  such  coloring  as  the  moonlight  threw  on  their  thoughts, 
but  neither  of  them  was  happy. 

Clay  was  humane,  and  a  lover  of  nature — a  poet,  that  is  to  say 
—and,  in  a  world  so  beautiful,  could  never  be  a  prey  to  disgust  j 


LATER  DAYS.  205 


but  he  was  satiated  with,  the  common  emotions  of  life.  His  heart, 
for  ever  overflowing,  had  filled  many  a  cup  with  love,  but  with 
strange  tenacity  he  turned  back  for  ever  to  the  first.  He  was 
weary  of  the  beginnings  of  love — weary  of  its  probations  and 
changes.  He  had  passed  the  period  of  life  when  inconstancy  was 
tempting.  He  longed  now  for  an  affection  that  would  continue 
into  another  world — holy  and  pure  enough  to  pass  a  gate  guarded 
by  angels.  And  his  first  love — recklessly  as  he  had  thrown  it 
away — was  now  the  thirst  of  his  existence. 

It  was  two  o'clock  at  night.  The  moon  lay  broad  upon  the 
southern  balconies  of  the  hotel,  and  every  casement  was  open  to 
its  luminous  and  fragrant  stillness.  Clay  and  the  Freyherr  Yon 
Leisten,  each  in  his  apartment,  were  awake,  unwilling  to  lose  the 
luxury  of  the  night.  And  there  was  one  other,  under  that  roof, 
waking,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon. 

As  Clay  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  looked  outward  to 
the  sky,  his  heart  began  to  be  troubled.  There  was  a  point  in 
the  path  of  the  moon's  rays  where  his  spirit  turned  back.  There 
was  an  influence,  abroad  in  the  dissolving  moonlight  around  him, 
which  resistlessly  awakened  the  past — the  sealed  but  unforgotten 
past.  He  could  not  single  out  the  emotion.  He  knew  not 
whether  it  was  fear  or  hope — pain  or  pleasure.  He  called, 
through  the  open  window,  to  Von  Leisten. 

The  Freyherr,  like  himself,  and  like  all  who  have  outlived  the 
efi'ervescence  of  life,  was  enamored  of  the  night.  A  moment  of 
unfathomable  moonlight  was  dearer  to  him  than  hours  disenchant- 
ed with  the  sun.  He,  too,  had  been  looking  outward  and  upward 
— ^but  with  no  trouble  at  his  heart. 

"  The  night  is  inconceivably  sweet,"  he  said,  as  he  entered. 


296  BRIDGE  OF  MOONLIGHT. 


"  and  jour  voice  called  in  my  thought  and  sense  from  the  intoxi 
cation  of  a  revel.     What  would  jou,  my  friend  ?" 

"  I  am  restless,  Yon  Leisten  !  There  is  some  one  near  us 
whose  glances  cross  mine  on  the  moonlightj  and  agitate  and  per- 
plex me.  Yet  there  was  but  one,  on  earth,  deep  enough  in  the 
life-blood  of  my  being  to  move  me  thus — even  were  she  here ! 
And  she  is  not  here  !" 

His  voice  trembled  and  softened,  and  the  last  word  was  scarce 
audible  on  his  closing  lips,  for  the  Freyherr  had  passed  his  hands 
over  him  while  he  spoke,  and  he  had  fallen  into  the  trance  of  the 
spirit-world. 

Clay  and  Yon  Leisten  had  retired  from  the  active  passions  of 
life  toorether,  and  had  met  and  mino;led  at  that  moment  of  void  and 

Of  o 

thirst  when  each  supplied  the  want  of  the  other.  The  Freyherr 
was  a  German  noble,  of  a  character  passionately  poetic,  and  of 
singular  acquirement  in  the  mystic  fields  of  knowledge.  Too 
wealthy  to  need  labor,  and  too  proud  to  submit  his  thoughts  or  his 
attainments  to  the  criticism  or  judgment  of  the  world,  he  lavished 
on  his  own  life,  and  on  those  linked  to  him  in  friendship,  the 
strange  powers  he  had  acquired,  and  the  prodigal  overthrow  of 
his  daily  thought  and  feeling.  Clay  was  his  superior,  perhaps,  in 
genius,  and  necessity  had  driven  him  to  develop  the  type  of  his 
inner  soul,  and  leave  its  impress  on  the  time.  But  he  was  infe- 
rior to  Yon  Leisten  in  the  power  of  will,  and  he  lay  in  his  control 
like  a  child  in  its  mother's.  Four  years  they  had  passed  together, 
much  of  it  in  the  secluded  castle  of  Yon  Leisten,  busied  with  the  oc- 
cult studies  to  which  the  Freyherr  was  secretly  devoted  ;  but  they 
were  now  travelling  down  to  Italy  to  meet  the  luxurious  summer, 
and  dividing  their  lives  between  the  enjoyment  of  nature  and  the 
ideal  world  they  had  unlocked.     Yon  Leisten  had  lost,  by  death, 


LATER  DAYS.  ^97 


the  human  altar  on  which  his  heart  could  alone  burn  the  incense  of 
love  ;  and  Clay  had  flung  aside  in  an  hour  of  intoxicating  passion 
the  one  pure  affection  in  which  his  happiness  was  sealed — and 
both  were  desolate.  But  in  the  world  of  the  past,  Yon  Leisten, 
though  more  irrevocably  lonely,  was  more  tranquilly  blest. 

The  Freyherr  released  the  entranced  spirit  of  his  friend,  and 
bade  him  follow  back  the  rays  of  the  moon  to  the  source  of  his 
agitation. 

A  smile  crept  slowly  over  the  speaker's  lips. 

In  an  apartment  flooded  with  the  silver  lustre  of  the  night,  re- 
clined, in  an  invalid's  chair,  propped  with  pillows,  a  woman  of 
singular,  though  most  fragile  beauty.  Books  and  music  lay 
strewn  around,  and  a  lamp,  subdued  to  the  tone  of  the  moonlight 
by  an  orb  of  alabaster,  burned  beside  her.  She  lay  bathing  her 
blue  eyes  in  the  round  chalice  of  the  moon.  A  profusion  of 
brown  ringlets  fell  over  the  white  dress  that  enveloped  her,  and 
her  oval  cheek  lay  supported  on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  her 
bright  red  lips  were  parted.  The  pure,  yet  passionate  spell  of 
that  soft  night  possessed  her. 

Over  her  leaned  the  disembodied  spirit  of  him  who  had  onoe 
loved  her — praying  to  God  that  his  soul  might  be  so  purified  as 
to  mingle  unstartlingly,  un repulsively,  in  hallowed  harmony  with 
hers.  And  presently  he  felt  the  coming  of  angels  toward  him, 
breathing  into  the  deepest  abysses  of  his  existence  a  tearful  and 
purifying  sadness.  And,  with  a  trembling  aspiration  of  grateful 
humility  to  his  Maker,  he  stooped  to  her  forehead,  and,  with  his 
impalpable  lips,  impressed  upon  its  snowy  tablet  a  kiss. 

It  seemed  to  Eve  Gore  a  thought  of  the  past  that  brought  the 
blood  suddenly  to  her  cheek.  She  started  from  her  reclining 
position,  and,  removing  the  obscuring  shade  from  her  lamp,  arose 
13* 


298  A  CLAIRVOYANT  FRIEND. 

and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  wrists,  and  paced  thoughtfully  to 
and  fro.  Her  lips  murmured  inarticulately.  But  the  thought, 
painfully  though  it  came,  changed  unaccountably  to  melancholy 
sweetness  ;  and,  subduing  her  lamp  again,  she  resumed  her  stead- 
fast gaze  upon  the  moon. 

Ernest  knelt  beside  her,  and,  with  his  invisible  brow  bowed  upon 
her  hand,  poured  forth,  in  the  voiceless  language  of  the  soul,  his 
memories  of  the  past,  his  hope,  his  repentance,  his  pure  and  pas- 
sionate adoration  at  the  present  hour. 

And  thinking  she  had  been  in  a  sweet  dream,  yet  wondering  at 
its  truthfulness  and  power.  Eve  wept,  silently  and  long.  As  the 
morning  touched  the  east,  slumber  weighed  upon  her  moistened 
eyelids,  and,  kneeling  by  her  bedside,  she  murmured  her  gratitude 
to  God  for  a  heart  relieved  of  a  burden  long  borne,  and  so  went 
peacefully  to  her  sleep.         ****** 

It  was  in  the  following  year,  and  in  the  beginning  of  May. 
The  gay  world  of  England  was  concentrated  in  London,  and  at 
the  entertainments  of  noble  houses  there  were  many  beautiful  wo- 
men and  many  marked  men.  The  Freyherr  Yon  Leisten,  after 
years  of  absence,  had  appeared  again,  his  mysterious  and  unde- 
niable superiority  of  mien  and  influence  again  yielded  to,  as  be- 
fore, and  again  bringing  to  his  feet  the  homage  and  deference  of 
the  crowd  he  moved  among.  To  his  inscrutable  power  the  game 
of  society  was  easy,  and  he  walked  where  he  would,  through  its 
barriers  of  form. 

He  stood  one  night  looking  on  at  a  dance.  A  lady  of  a  noble 
air  was  near  him,  and  both  were  watching  the  movements  of  the 
loveliest  woman  present,  a  creature  in  radiant  health,  apparently 
about  twenty-three,  and  of  matchless  fascination  of  person  and 
manner.     Von  Leisten  turned  to  the  lady  near  him  to  inquire  her 


LATER  DAYS.  399 


name,  but  bis  attention  was  arrested  by  the  resemblance  between 
her  and  the  object  of  his  admiring  curiosity,  and  he  was  silent. 

The  lady  had  bowed  before  he  withdrew  his  gaze,  however. 

"  I  think  we  have  met  before  !"  she  said  ;  but  at  the  next  in 
stant  a  slight  flush  of  displeasure  came  to  her  cheek,  and  she 
seemed  regretting  that  she  had  spoken. 

"  Pardon  me  !"  said  Von  Leisten,  "  but — if  the  question  be  not 
rude — do  you  remember  where  .?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  have  recalled  it  since  I  have  spoken,"  she  continued  ;  "  but 
as  the  remembrance  of  the  person  who  accompanied  you  always 
gives  me  pain,  T  would  willingly  have  unsaid  it.  One  evening  of 
last  year,  crossing  the  bridge  of  the  Lima,  you  were  walking  with 
Mr.  Clay.  Pardon  me — but,  though  I  left  Lucca  with  my 
daughter  on  the  following  morning,  and  saw  you  no  more,  the  as- 
sociation, or  your  appearance,  had  imprinted  the  circumstance  on 
my  mind." 

^'  And  is  that  Eve  Gore !"  said  Von  Leisten,  musingly,  gazing 
on  the  beautiful  creature  now  gliding  with  light  step  to  her 
mother's  side. 

But  the  Freyherr's  heart  was  gone  to  his  friend. 

As  the  burst  of  the  waltz  broke  in  upon  the  closing  of  the 
quadrille,  he  offered  his  hand  to  the  fair  girl,  and,  as  they  moved 
round  to  the  entrancing  music,  he  murmured  in  her  ear,  "  He 
who  came  to  you  in  the  moonlight  of  Italy  will  be  with  you  again, 
if  you  are  alone,  at  the  rising  of  to-night's  late  moon.  Believe 
the  voice  that  then  speaks  to  you!"         *         *         *         * 

It  was  with  implacable  determination  that  Mrs.  Gore  refused, 
to  the  entreaties  of  Yon  Leisten,  a  renewal  of  Clay's  acquaintance 
with  her  daughter.     Resentment   for  the  apparent  recklessness 


300         '  FIRST  LOVE  AT  LAST. 


witli  which  he  had  once  sacrificed  her  maiden  love  for  an  unlaw- 
ful passion — scornful  unbelief  of  any  change  in  his  character — dis- 
trust of  the  future  tendency  of  the  powers  of  his  genius — all 
mingled  together,  in  a  hostility  proof  against  persuasion.  She  had 
expressed  this  with  all  the  positiveness  of  language,  when  her 
daughter  suddenly  entered  the  room.  It  was  the  morning  after 
the  ball,  and  she  had  risen  late.  But,  though  subdued  and  pen- 
sive in  her  air.  Yon  Leisten  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was  happy. 

"  Can  you  bring  him  to  me  ?"  said  Eve,  letting  her  hand  re- 
main in  Yon  Leisten's,  and  bending  her  deep  blue  eyes  inquiring- 
ly on  his. 

And,  with  no  argument  but  tears  and  caresses,  and  an  unex- 
plained assurance  of  her  conviction  of  the  repentant  purity  and 
love  of  him  to  whom  her  heart  was  once  given,  the  confiding  and 
strong-hearted  girl  bent,  at  last,  the  stern  will  that  forbade  her 
happiness.  Her  mother  unclasped  the  slight  arms  from  her  neck, 
and  gave  her  hand  in  silent  consent  to  Yon  Leisten. 

The  Freyherr  stood  a  moment  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
The  color  fled  from  his  cheeks,  and  his  brow  moistened. 

"  I  have  called  him,"  he  said — "  he  will  be  here  !" 

"  An  hour  elapsed,  and  Clay  entered  the  house.  He  had  risen 
from  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  came,  pale  and  in  terror — for  the 
spirit-summons  was  powerful.  But  Yon  Leisten  welcomed  him  at 
the  door  with  a  smile,  and  withdrew  the  mother  from  the  room, 
and  left  Ernest  alone  with  his  future  bride — the  first  union,  save 
in  spirit,  after  years  of  separation. 


'' BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST;" 


HANDS03IE  MRS.  TITTON  AND   HER  PLAIN  HUSBAND. 

"  That  man  i'  the  world  ivho  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  naught  be  trusted 
For  speaking  false  in  that." — Hknry  "VIII. 

I  HAVE  always  been  very  fond  of  the  society  of  portrait- 
painters.  Whether  it  is,  (hat  the  pursuit  of  a  beautiful  and 
liberal  art  softens  their  natural  nualities,  or  that,  from  the  habit 
of  conversing  while  engrossed  with  the  pencil,  they  like  best  that 
touch-and-go  talk  which  takes  care  of  itself;  or,  more  probably 
still,  whether  the  freedom  with  which  they  are  admitted  behind 
the  curtains  of  vanity  and  affection,  gives  a  certain  freshness  and 
truth  to  their  views  of  things  around  them — certain  it  is,  that,  in 
all  countries,  their  rooms  are  the  most  agreeable  of  haunts,  and 
they  themselves  the  most  enjoyable  of  cronies. 

I  had  chanced,  in  Italy,  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  S , 

an  English  artist  of  considerable  cleverness  in  his  profession, 
but  more  remarkable  for  his  frank  good  breeding,  and  his  abund- 
ant good  nature.  Four  years  after,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  renew- 
ing my  intercourse  with  him  in  London,  where  he  was  flourishing, 
quite  up  to  his  deserving,  as  a  portrait-painter.     His  rooms  were 


302  PORTRAIT  PAINTER'S  SECRET. 


bard-by  one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares,  and,  from  making  an 
occasional  visit,  I  grew  to  frequenting  them  daily,  often  joining 
him  at  his  early  breakfast,  and  often  taking  him  out  with  me  to 
drive  whenever  we  chanced  to  tire  of  our  twilight  stroll.  While 
rambling  in  Hyde  Park,  one  evening,  I  mentioned,  for  the  twen- 
tieth time,  a  singularly  ill-assorted  couple  I  had  once  or  twice  met 
at  his  room — a  woman  of  superb  beauty,  attended  by  a  very  in- 
ferior-looking and  ill-dressed  man.     S had,  previously,  with 

a  smile  at  my  speculations,  dismissed  the  subject  rather  crisply  ; 
but,  on  this  occasion,  I  went  into  some  surmises  as  to  the  pro- 
bable results  of  such  "  pairing  and  matching,"  and  he  either  felt 
called  upon  to  defend  the  lacl}^,  or  made  my  misapprehension  of 
her  character  an  excuse  for  telling  me  what  he  knew  about  her. 
He  began  the  story  in  the  Park,  and  ended  it  over  a  bottle  of 
wine  in  the  Haymarket — of  course,  with  man)'-  interruptions  and 
digressions.  Let  me  f^'-";;  if  I  can  tie  his  broken  threads 
together. 

"  That  lady  is  jlrs.  Fortescue  Titton,  and  the  gentleman  you 
so  much  disparage,  is,  if  you  please,  the  incumbrance  to  ten 
thousand  a  year — the  money  as  much  at  her  service  as  the  hus- 
band by  whom  she  gets  it.     "Whether  h?  could  have  won  her, had 

he  been 

"  Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony," 

I  will  not  assert,  especially  to  one  who  looks  on  them  as  '  Beauty 
and  the  Beast;'  but,  that  she  loves  him,  or,  at  least,  prefers  to 
him  no  handsomer  man,  I  may  say  I  have  been  brought  to  be- 
lieve, in  the  way  of  my  profession." 

"  You  have  painted  her,  then  .^"  I  asked  rather  eagerly,  think- 
ing I  might  get  a  sketch  of  her  face  to  take  with  me  to  another 
country. 


LATER  DAYS.  303 


"  No,  but  I  have  painted  kirn — and  for  her — and  it  is  not  a 
case  of  Titania  and  Bottom,  either.  She  is  quite  aware  he  is  a 
monster  ;  and  wanted  his  picture  for  a  reason  you  would  never 
divine.     But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 

"  After  you  left  me  in  Italy,  I  was  employed,  by  the  Earl  of 

,  to  copy  one  or  two  of  his  favorite  pictures  in  the  Vatican, 

and  that  brought  me  rather  well  acquainted  with  his  son.  Lord 
George  was  a  gay  youth,  and  a  very  *  look-and-die'  style  of  fel- 
low ;  and,  as  much  from  admiration  of  his  beauty  as  anything 
else,  I  asked  him  to  sit  to  me,  on  our  return  to  London.  I 
painted  him  very  fantastically  in  an  Albanian  cap  and  Oriental 
morning-gown  and  slippers,  smoking  a  narghile — the  room  in 
which  he  sat,  by  the  way,  being  a  correct  portrait  of  his  own 
den — a  perfect  museum  of  costly  luxury.  It  was  a  pretty  gor 
geous  turn  out,  in  the  way  of  color,  and  was  severely  criticised, 
but  still  a  good  deal  noticed — for  I  sent  it  to  the  exhibition. 

"  I  was  one  day  going  into  Somerset  House,  when  Lord  George 
hailed  me,  from  his  cab.  He  wished  to  suggest  some  alteration 
in  his  picture,  or,  to  tell  me  of  some  criticism  upon  it — I  forget 
exactly  what ;  but  we  went  up  together.  Directly  before  the 
portrait,  gazing  at  it  with  marked  abstraction,  stood  a  beautiful 
woman,  quite  alone  ;  and,  as  she  occupied  the  only  point  where 
the  light  was  favorable,  we  waited  a  moment,  till  she  should  pass 
on — Lord  George,  of  course,  rather  disposed  to  shrink  from  be- 
ing recognized  as  the  original.  The  woman's  interest  in  the  pic- 
ture seemed  rather  to  increase,  however ;  and,  what  with  vari 
ations  of  the  posture  of  her  head,  and  pulling  at  her  glove-fingers, 
and  other  female  indications  of  restlessness  and  enthusiasm,  I 
thought  I  was  doing  her  no  injustice  by  turning  to  my  companion 
with  a  congratulatory  smile. 


304  OBJECT  OF  A  VISIT. 

** '  It  seems  a  case,  by  Jove  !'  said  Lord  George,  trying  U 
look  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very  simple  occurrence  ;  '  and  she'a 
as  fine  a  creature  as  IVe  seen  this  season  !  Eh,  old  boy  ?  We 
must  run  her  down,  and  see  where  she  burrows — and  there's  no- 
body with  her,  by  good  luck !' 

*'  A  party  entered  just  then,  and  passed  between  her  and  the 
picture.  She  looked  annoyed,  I  thought,  but  started  forward,  and 
borrowed  a  catalogue  of  a  little  girl;  and,  we  could  see  that  sho 
turned  to  the  last  page,  on  which  the  portrait  was  numbered, 
with,  of  course,  the  name  and  address  of  the  painter.  She  made 
a  memorandum  on  one  of  her  cards,  and  left  the  house.  Lord 
George  followed,  and  I,  too,  as  far  as  the  door,  where  I  saw  her 
get  into  a  very  stylishly-appointed  carriage  and  drive  away,  fol- 
lowed closely  by  the  cab  of  my  friend,  whom  I  had  declined  to 
accompanyi 

*'  You  wouldn't  have  given  very  heavy  odds  against  his  chance, 
would  you  .^"  said  S ,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

*'No,  indeed  !"  I  answered,  quite  sincerely. 

"  Well,  I  was  at  work,  the  next  morning,  glazing  a  picture  I 
had  just  finished,  when  the  servant  brought  up  the  card  of  Mrs. 
Fortescue  Titton.  I  chanced  to  be  alone,  so  the  lady  was  shown 
at  once  into  my  painting  room  ;  and  lo  !  the  incognita  of  Somer- 
set House.  The  plot  thickens,  thought  I !  She  sat  down  in  my 
*  subject'  chair  ;  and,  faith  !  her  beauty  quite  dazzled  me  !  Her 
first  smile — but,  you  have  seen  her  ;  so  I'll  not  bore  you  with 
a  description. 

*''Mrs.  Titton  blushed  on  opening  her  errand  to  me — first,  in- 
quiring if  I  was  the  painter  of  *  No.  403,'  in  the  exhibition,  aod 
oaying  some  very  civil  things  about  the  picture.  I  mentioned 
tiiat  it  was  a  portrait  df  Lord  George ,  (for  his  name  was 


LATER  DAYS.  g05 


not  in  the  catalogue,)  and  I  thoucrht  she  blushed  still  more  con- 
fusedly ;  but,  that,  I  think  now,  was  fancy,  or,  at  any  rate,  had 
nothing  to  do  -with  feeling  for  his  lordship.  It  was  natural 
enough  for  me  to  be  mistaken ;  for  she  was  very  particular  in  her 
inquiries  as  to  the  costume,  furniture,  and  little  belongings  of  the 
picture,  and  asked  me,  among  other  things,  whether  it  was  a  flat- 
tered likeness .'' — this  last  question  very  pointedly,  too  ! 

"  She  arose  to  go.  Was  I  at  leisure — and  could  I  sketch  a 
head  for  her — and  when  ? 

"I  appointed  the  next  day,  expecting,  of  course,  that  the  sub- 
ject was  the  lady  herself,  and  scarcely  slept  with  thinking  of  it, 
and  starved  myself  at  breakfast  to  have  a  clear  eye,  and  a  hand 
wide  awake.  And,  at  ten  she  came,  with  her  Mr.  Fortescue 
Titton  !  I  was  sorry  to  see  that  she  had  a  husband ;  for  I  had 
indulged  myself  with  a  vague  presentiment  that  she  was  a  widov/ ; 
but  I  begged  him  to  take  a  chair,  and  prepared  the  platform  for 
my  beautiful  subject. 

"  '  Will  you  take  your  seat  .^'  I  asked,  with  all  my  suavity, 
when  my  palette  was  ready. 

" '  My  dear,'  said  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  and  pointing  to 
the  chair,  '  ]Mr.  S is  ready  for  you.' 

"  I  begged  pardon  for  a  moment,  crossed  over  to  Verey's,  and 
bolted  a  beefsteak  !  A  cup  of  coffee,  and  a  glass  of  Curagoa, 
and  a  little  walk  round  Hanover  square,  and  I  recovered  from  the 
shock  a  little.     It  went  very  hard,  I  give  you  my  word. 

"I  returned,  and  took  a  look,  for  the  first  time,  at  Mr.  Titton. 
You  have  seen  him,  and  have  some  idea  of  what  his  portrait 
might  be,  considered  as  a  pleasure  to  the  artist — what  it  might 
promise,  I  should  rather  say  ;  for,  after  all,  I  ultimately  enjoyed 
working  at  it,  quite  aside  from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Titton.     Tt 


306  -         A  PLAIN  MAN'S  BEAUTY. 


was  the  ugliest  face  in  the  world,  but  full  of  good-nature  ;  and, 
as  I  looked  closer  into  it,  I  saw,  among  its  coarse  features,  lines 
of  almost  feminine  delicacy,  and  capabilities  of  enthusiasm,  of 
which  the  man  himself  was  probably  unconscious.  Then  a  cer- 
tain helpless  style  of  dress  was  a  wet  blanket  to  him.  Rich 
from  his  cradle,  I  suppose  his  qualities  had  never  been  needed 
on  the  surface.     His  wife  knew  them. 

"  From  time  to  time,  as  I  worked,  Mrs.  Titton  came  and 
looked  over  my  shoulder.  With  a  natural  desire  to  please  her,  I, 
here  and  there,  softened  a  harsh  line,  and  was  going  on  to  flatter 
the  likeness — not  as  successfully  as  I  could  wish,  however  ;  for  it  is 
much  easier  to  get  a  faithful  likeness,  than  to  flatter  without  de- 
stroying it. 

"*  Mr.  S ,'  said  she,  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm,  as  I  thin- 
ned away  the  lumpy  rim  of  his  nostril,  '  I  want,  first,  a  literal 
copy  of  my  husband's  features.  Suppose,  with  this  idea,  you 
take  a  fresh  canvas  .^' 

"  Thoroughly  mystified  by  the  whole  business,  I  did  as  she 
requested  ;  and,  in  two  sittings,  made  a  likeness  of  Titton,  which 
would  have  given  you  a  face-ache.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at 
it,  and  seemed  very  glad  when  the  bore  of  sitting  was  over ;  but, 
they  seemed  to  understand  each  other  very  well,  or,  if  not,  he 
reserved  his  questions  till  there  could  be  no  restraint  upon  the 
answer.  He  seemed  a  capital  fellow,  and  I  liked  him  exceed- 
ingly- 

"  I  asked  if  I  should  frame  the  picture,  and  send  it  home  ? 
No  !  I  was  to  do  neither.  If  I  would  be  kind  enough  not  to 
show  it,  nor  to  mention  it,  to  any  one,  and  come  next  day  and 
dine  with  them,  en  families  Mrs.  Titton  would  feel  very  much 
obliged  to  me.     And   this  dinner  was  followed  up  by  breakfasts 


LATER  DAYS.  307 


and  lunches  and  suppers ;  and,  for  a  fortnight,  I  really  lived 
with  the  Tittons — and,  pleasanter  people  to  live  with,  by  Jove, 
you  haven't  seen  in  your  travels,  though  you  are  ^a  picked  man 
of  countries  !' 

"  I  should  mention,  bj^-the-way,  that  I  was  always  placed  op- 
posite Titton  at  table,  and  that  he  was  a  good  deal  with  me,  one 
way  and  another,  taking  me  out,  as  you  do,  for  a  stroll,  calling 
and  sitting  with  me  when  I  was  at  work,  etc.  And,  as  to  INIrs. 
Titton — if  I  did  not  mistrust  your  arriere  pensee^  I  would  en- 
large a  little  on  my  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Titton !  But,  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you,  that,  without  a  ray  of  flirtation,  we  became 
as  cosily  intimate  as  brother  and  sister." 

"  And  what  of  Lord  George,  all  this  tim«  .?"  I  asked. 

"  Ob,  Lord  George  ! — "Well,  Lord  George,  of  course,  had  no 
difficulty  in  making  Mrs.  Titton's  acquaintance,  though  they  were 
not  quite  in  the  same  circle  ;  and  he  had  been  presented  to  her, 
and  had  ssen  her  at  a  party  or  two,  where  he  managed  to  be  in- 
vited on  purpose  ;  but  of  this,  for  a  while,  I  heard  nothing.  She 
had  not  yet  seen  him  at  her  own  house,  and  I  had  not  chanced 
to  encounter  him.     But,  let  me  go  on  with  my  story. 

"  Mrs.  Titton  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her,  one  morning  rather 
early.  I  found  her  in  her  boudoir,  in  a  neglige  morning-dress, 
and  looking  adorably  beautiful,  and  as  pure  as  beautiful,  you  smil- 
ing villain  !  She  seemed  to  have  something  on  her  mind,  about 
which  she  was  a  little  embarrassed ;  but,  I  knew  her  too  well,  to 
lay  any  unction  io  my  soul.  We  chatted  about  the  weather  a 
few  moments,  and  she  came  to  the  point.  You  will  see  that  she 
was  a  woman  of  some  talent,  mon  ami ! 

"  *  Have  you  looked  at  my  husband's  portrait  since  you  finished 
it .?"  she  asked. 


308  ONE  WAY  TO  LOVE. 


**']Soj  indeed!'  I  rej^lied,  rather  hastily — but  immediately 
apologized. 

"  *■  Oh,  if  I  had  not  been  certain  you  would  not,'  she  said,  with 
a  smile,  '  I  should  have  requested  it,  for  I  wished  you  to  for- 
get it,  as  far  as  possible.  And  now,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  want 
of  you  !  You  have  got,  on  canvas,  a  likeness  of  Fortescue,  as 
the  world  sees  him.  Since  taking  it,  however,  you  have  seen 
him  more  intimately,  and — and — like  his  face  better — do  you 
not  P 

"  ^  Certainly  !  certainly  !"  I  exclaimed,  in  all  sincerity. 

"  ^  Thank  you  !     If  I  mistake   not,  then,  you  do    not,  when 
thinking  of  him,  call  up  to  your  mind  the  features  in  your  por 
trait,  but  a  face  formed  rather  of  his  good  qualities,  as  you  havt^ 
learned  to  trace  them  in  his  expression.' 

"  '  True,'  I  said,  '  very  true  !' 

"  '  Now,  then,'  she  continued,  leaning  over  to  me  very  ear- 
nestly, '  I  want  you  to  paint  a  new  picture,  and,  without  depart- 
ing from  the  real  likeness,  which  you  will  have  to  guide  you — 
breathe  into  it  the  expression  you  have  in  your  ideal  likeness. 
Add — to  what  the  world  sees — what  I  see,  what  you  see,  what  all 
who  love  him  see,  in  his  plain  features.  Idealize  it — spiritualize 
it,  and,  without  lessening  the  resemblance.     Can  this  be  done  P 

"  I  thought  it  could.     I  promised  to  do  my  utmost. 

"  '  I  shall  call  and  see  you  as  you  progress  in  it,'  she  said, 
*  and  now,  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  stay  to  lunch,  and 
come  out  with  me  in  the  carriage.  I  want  a  little  of  your  for- 
eign taste  in  the  selection  of  some  pretty  nothings  for  a  gentle- 
man's toilet.' 

"  We  passed  the  morning  in  making  what  I  should  consider 
very  extravagant  purchases  for  anybody  but  a  prince-royal,  wind- 


LATER  DAYS.  309 


icg  up  with  some  delicious  cabinet  pictures,  and  some  gems  of 
statuary — all  suited  only,  I  should  say,  to  the  apartments  of  a 
fastidious  luxuriast.     I  was  not  yet  at  the  bottom  of  her  secret. 

*'  I  went  to  work  upon  the  new  picture,  with  the  zeal  always 
given  to  an  artist  by  an  appreciative  and  confiding  employer, 
^he  called  every  day,  and  made  important  suggestions,  and,  at 
last,  I  finished  it  to  her  satisfiiction  and  mine  ;  and,  witliout 
speaking  of  it  as  a  vrork  of  art,  I  may  give  you  my  opinion,  that 
Titton  will  scarcely  be  more  embellished  in  the  other  world — 
that  is,  if  it  be  true,  as  the  divines  tell  us,  that  our  mortal  like- 
ness will  be  so  far  preserved,  though  improved  upon,  that  we 
shall  be  recognizable  by  our  friends.  Still,  I  was  to  paint  a  third 
picture — a  cabinet  full  length  ;  and,  for  this,  the  other  two  were 
but  studies,  and  so  intended  by  Mrs.  Fortescue  Titton.  It  was 
to  be  an  improvement  upon  Lord  George's  portrait,  (which,  of 
course,  had  given  her  the  idea,)  and  was  to  represent  her  hus- 
band in  a  very  costly,  and  an  exceedingly  recherche  morning 
costume — dressing-gown,  slippers,  waistcoat,  and  neckcloth  worn 
with  perfect  elegance,  and  representing  a  Titton  with  a  faultless 
attitude,  (in  Vi  fautcuil^  reading,)  a  faultless  exterior,  and  around 
him  the  most  sumptuous  appliances  of  dressing-room  luxury. 
This  picture  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  vexation  and  labor  ;  for  it 
was,  emphatically,  vl  fancy  picture — poor  Titton  never  having  ap- 
peared in  that  character,  even  ^  by  particular  desire.'  I  finished 
it,  however,  and  again  to  her  satisfaction.  I  afterward  added 
some  finishing  touches  to  the  other  two,  and  sent  them  home,  ap- 
propriately framed,  according  to  very  minute  instructions." 

"  IIow  long  ago  was  this  .^"  I  asked. 

"  Three  years,"  replied  S ,  musing  over  his  wine. 

tc  "Well — the  sequel  ?"  said  I,  a  little  impatient. 


310  USE  OF  A  PORTRAIT. 


"  I  was  thinking  how  I  should  let  it  break  upon  you,  as  it  took 
effect  upon  her  acquaintances  ;  for,  understand,  Mrs.  Titton  is 
too  much  of  a  diplomatist  to  do  anything  obviously  dramatic  in 
this  age  of  ridicule.  She  knows  very  well  that  any  sudden 
'  flare-up'  of  her  husband's  consequence — any  new  light  on  his 
character  obviously  calling  for  attention — would  awaken  specu- 
lation, and  set  to  work  the  watchful  anatomizers  of  the  body 
fashionable.  Let  me  see  !  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should  have 
known  about  it,  had  I  been  only  an  ordinary  acquaintance — not 
in  the  secret,  and  not  the  painter  of  the  pictures. 

"  Some  six  months  after  the  finishing  of  the  last  portrait,  I 
was  at  a  large  ball  at  their  house.  Mrs.  Titton's  beauty,  I 
should  have  told  you,  and  the  style  in  which  they  lived,  and,  very 
possibly,  a  little  of  Lord  George's  good  will,  had  elevated  them, 
from  the  wealthy  and  respectable  level  of  society,  to  the  fashion- 
able and  exclusive.  All  the  best  people  went  there.  As  I  was 
going  in,  I  overtook,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  a  very  clever  little 
widow,  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  she  honored  me  by  taking 
my  arm,  and  keeping  it  for  a  promenade  through  the  rooms.  We 
made  our  bow  to  Mrs.  Titton,  and  strolled  across  the  reception- 
room,  where  the  most  conspicuous  object,  dead  facing  us,  with  a 
flood  of  light  upon  it,  was  my  first  veracious  portrait  of  Titton  ! 
As  I  was  not  known  as  the  artist,  I  indulged  myself  in  some 
commonplace  exclamations  of  horror. 

"  ^  Do  not  look  at  that,'  said  the  widow,  ^  you  will  distress  poor 
Mrs.  Titton.  What  a  quiz  that  clever  husband  of  hers  must  be, 
to  insist  on  exposing  such  a  caricature  !' 

"  ^  How  insist  upon  it  ?'  I  asked. 

" '  Why,  have  you  never  seen  the  one  in  her  boudoir  ?  Come 
with  me  .^' 


LATER  DAYS.  3n 


"  We  made  our  way  through  the  apartments,  to  the  little  re- 
treat lined  with  silk,  which  was  the  morning  lounge  of  the  fair 
mistress  of  the  house.  There  was  but  one  picture,  with  a  cur- 
tain drawn  carefully  across  it — my  second  portrait !  We  sat 
down  on  the  luxurious  cushions,  and  the-  widow  went  off  into  a 
discussion  of  it  and  the  original,  pronouncing  it  a  perfect  like- 
ness, not  at  all  flattered,  and  very  soon  begging  me  to  re-draw 
the  curtain,  lest  we  should  be  surprised  by  Mr.  Titton  himself. 

"  ^  And  suppose  we  were  ?'  said  I. 

"*Why,  he  is  such  an  oddity!'  replied  the  widow,  lowering 
her  tone.  '  They  say,  that  in  this  very  house,  he  has  a  suite  of 
apartments  entirely  to  himself,  furnished  with  a  taste  and  luxury 
really  wonderful !  There  are  tico  Mr.  Tittons,  my  dear  friend  ! — 
one  a  perfect  Sybarite,  very  elegant  in  his  dress,  when  he  chooses 
to  be,  excessively  accomplished  and  fastidious,  and  brilliant  and 
fascinating  to  a  degree  !  (and,  in  this  character,  they  say  he  won 
that  superb  creature  for  a  wife ;)  and  the  other  Mr.  Titton  is 
just  the  slovenly  monster  that  everybody  sees  !     Isn't  it  odd  ?' 

"  ^  Queer  enough  !'  said  I,  affecting  great  astonishment ;  '  pray, 
have  you  ever  been  into  these  mysterious  apartments  ?' 

"  '  No  !  They  say  only  his  wife  and  himself,  and  one  confi- 
dential servant,  ever  pass  the  threshold.  Mrs.  Titton  don't  like 
to  talk  about  it,  though  one  would  think  she  could  scarcely  object 
to  her  husband's  being  thought  better  of.  It's  pride  on  his  part 
— sheer  pride,  and  I  can  understand  the  feeling  very  well !  He's 
a  very  superior  man,  and  he  has  made  up  his  mind  that  the  world 
thinks  him  very  awkward  and  ugly ;  and  he  takes  a  pleasure  in 
showing  the  world  that  he  don't  care  a  rush  for  its  opinion,  and 
has  resources  quite  sufficient  within  himself.  That's  the  reason 
that  atrocious  portrait  is  hung  up  in  the  best  room,  and  this 


312  A  LOVER  Ux\DECEIVED. 


gjood-looking  one  covered  up  with  a  curtain !  I  suppose  thi9 
wouldn't  be  here,  if  he  could  have  his  own  way,  and  if  his  wife 
weren't  so  much  in  love  with  him  !' 

"  This,  I  assure  you,"  said  S ,  "  is  the  impression  through- 
out their  circle  of  acquaintances.  The  Tittons,  themselves,  main- 
tain a  complete  silence  on  the  subject.  Mr.  Fortescue  Titton  is 
considered  a  very  accomplished  man,  with  a  very  proud  and  very 
secret  contempt  for  the  opinions  of  the  world — dressing  badly  on 
purpose,  silent  and  simple  by  design,  and  only  caring  to  show 
himself  in  his  real  character  to  his  beautiful  wife,  who  is  thought 
to  be  completely  in  love  with  him,  and  quite  excusable  for  it! 
What  do  you  think  of  the  woman's  diplomatic  talents .'" 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  know  her,"  said  I ;  "  but  what  says 
Lord  George  to  all  this  .^" 

"  I  had  a  call  from  Lord  George,  not  long  ago,"  replied  S , 

"  and,  for  the  first  time  since  our  chat  at  Somerset  House,  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  Tittons 

"  ^  Devilish  sly  of  you  !'  said  his  Lordship,  turning  to  me  half 
angry,  '  why  did  you  pretend  not  to  know  the  woman  at  Somer- 
set House }  You  might  have  saved  me  lots  of  trouble  and 
money,  for  I  was  a  month  or  two  finding  out  what  sort  of  people 
they  were — feeing  the  servants  and  getting  them  called  on  and 
invited  here  and  there — all  w^ith  the  idea  that  it  was  a  rich 
donkey  with  a  fine  toy  that  didn't  belong  to  him  !" 

"'Well!'  exclaimed  I— 

"  '  Well ! — not  at  all  well !  I  made  a  great  ninny  of  myself, 
with  that  satirical  sl3-boots,  old  Titton,  laughing  at  me  all  the 
time,  when  you,  that  had  painted  him  in  his  proper  character, 
and  knew  what  a  deep  devil  he  was,  might  have  saved  me  with 
but  half  a  hint !' 


LATER  DAYS.  3] 3 

"  '  You  bare  been  in  tbe  bidy's  boudoir,  tben  !' 
*' '  Yes,  and  iu  tbe  gentleiiuin's  sanctum  sanctorum  !  Mrs. 
Titton  sent  for  me  about  some  trumpery  tbing  or  otber,  and  when 
I  called,  tbe  servant  sbowed  me  in  there  by  mistake.  There  was 
a  great  row  in  tbe  house  about  it,  but  I  was  there  long  enough  to 
see  what  a  monstrous  nice  time  the  fellow  has  of  it,  all  to  him- 
self, and  to  see  your  picture  of  hira  in  his  private  character.  The 
picture  you  made  of  ?}ic,  was  only  a  copy  of  that,  you  sly  traitor ! 
And,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Titton  didn't  like  your  stealing  from  hers, 
did  she  .^ — for,  I  take  it,  that  was  what  ailed  her  at  the  exhibition, 
when  you  allowed  me  to  be  so  humbugged  V 

"  I  had  a  good  laugh  ;  but  it  was  as  much  at  the  quiet  success 
of  Mis.  Titton's  tactics,  as  at  Lord  George's  discomfiture.     Of 

course,  I  could  not  undeceive  him.     And  now,"  continued  S , 

very  good-naturedly,  "  just  ring  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  I'll  write 
a  note  to  Mrs.  Titton,  asking  leave  to  bring  you  there  this  even- 
inz,  for  it's  her  ^  night  at  bome,'  and  s/ie''s  woi  th  seeing,  if  my 
pictures,  which  you  will  see  there,  are  net.'' 


MISS  JONES'S  SON 

One  night,  toward  the  close  of  the  London  season — the  last 
week  in  August,  or  thereabouts — the  Deptford  omnibus  set  down 
a  gentleman  at  one  of  the  small  brick-block  cottages  on  the  Kent 
road.  He  was  a  very  quietly  disposed  person,  with  a  face  rather 
inscrutable  to  a  common  eye,  and  might,  or  might  not,  pass  for 
what  he  was — a  man  of  mark.  His  age  was  perhaps  thirty,  and 
his  manners  and  movements  had  that  cool  security  which  can 
come  only  from  conversance  with  a  class  of  society  that  is  beyond 
being  laughed  at.  He  was  handsome — but,  when  the  style  of  a 
man  is  well  pronounced,  that  is  an  unobserved  trifle. 

Perhaps  the  reader  will  step  in  to  No.  10,  Verandah  Row, 
without  further  ceremony. 

The  room — scarce  more  than  a  squirrel-box  from  back  to  front 
— was  divided  by  folding  doors,  and  the  furniture  was  fanciful  and 
neatly  kept.  The  canary-bird,  in  a  very  small  cage,  in  the  cor- 
ner, seemed  rather  an  intruder  on  such  small  quarters.  You 
could  scarce  give  a  guess  what  style  of  lady  was  the  tenant  of  such 
miniature  gentility. 

The  omnibus  passenger  sat  down  in  one  of  the  little  cane  bot- 
tomed and  straight-backed  chairs,  and  presently  the  door  opened, 
au4  ?t  stout  elderly  woman,  whose  skirts  really  filled  up  the  re- 


LATER  DAYS. 


315 


maining  void  of  the  little  parlor,  entered  with  a  cordial  exclama-. 
tion,  and  an  aficctionate  embrace  was  exchanged  between  them. 

"  Well,  my  dear  mother  !"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  am  off  to-mor- 
row to  Warwickshire  to  pass  the  shooting  season,  and  I  came  to 
wind  up  your  household  clockwork,  to  go  for  a  month — (ticldngj 
I  am  sorry  to  say !)  \Vhat  do  you  want  ?  How  is  the  tea- 
caddy  .'" 

"  Out  of  green,  James,  but  the  black  will  do  till  you  come 
back.  La !  don't  talk  of  such  matters  when  you  are  just  going  to 
leave  me.  I'll  step  up  stairs  and  make  3^ou  out  a  list  of  my  wants 
presently.  Tell  me — where  are  you  going  in  Warwickshire  } 
I  went  to  school  in  Warwickshire.  Dear  me  !  the  lovers  I  had 
there  !     Well,  well !     Where  did  you  say  you.  were  going  ,?" 

"  To  the  Marquis  of  Headfort — Headfort  Court,  I  think  his 
place  is  called — a  post  and  a  half  from  Stratford.  Were  you 
ever  there,  mother .?" 

"  /there,  indeed  !  no,  my  son  !  But  I  had  a  lover  near  Strat- 
ford— ^young  Sir  Humphrey  Fencher,  he  was  then — old  Sir  Hum- 
phrey now  !  I'm  sure  he  remembers  me,  long  as  it  is  since  I  saw 
him — and,  James,  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  him.  Yes — I  should 
like  to  know  how  he  looks,  and  what  he  will  say  to  my  grown-up 
boy.  I'll  go  and  wiite  it  now,  and  I'll  look  over  the  groceries  at 
the  same  time.  If  you  move  your  chair,  James,  don't  crush  the 
canary-bird !" 

The  mention  of  the  letter  of  introduction  lingered  in  the  ear  of 
the  gentleman  left  in  the  parlor,  and,  smiling  to  himself  with  a 
look  of  covert  humor,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter  of  which 
it  reminded  him — the  letter  of  introduction,  on  the  strength  of 
which  he  was  going  to  Warwickshire.  As  this  and  the  one  which 
was  being  written  up  staii'S,  were  the  two  pieces  of  ordnance  des- 


316  A  DA?vDPS  LETTER. 


tined  to  propel  the  incidents  of  our  stoiy,  the  reader  will  excuse 
us  for  presenting  them  as  a  "  make  ready." 

"  Crochfordh,  Monday 
"  Dear  Fred  :  Nothing  going  on  in  town,  except  a  little  affan- 
of  my  own,  which  I  can't  leave  to  go  down  to  you.  Dull  even  at 
Crocky's — nobody  plays,  this  hot  weather.  And  novf,  as  to  your 
commissions.  You  will  receive  Duprez,  the  cook,  by  to-night's 
mail.  Grisi  won't  come  to  you  without  her  man — '  'twasn't  thus 
when  we  were  boys !' — so  I  send  you  a  figurante,  and  you  must 

do  tableaux.     I  was  luckier  in  finding  you  a  Vv^t.     S will  be 

v/ith  you  to-morrow,  though,  by  the  way,  it  is  only  on  condition 
of  meeting  Lady  Midge  Bellasys,for  whom,  if  she  is  not  with  you, 
you  must  exert  your  inveiglements.  This,  by  way  only  of  shut- 
tlecock and  battledore,  however,  for  they  play  at  wit  together — • 
nothing  more,  on  Jwr  part  at  least.  Look  out  for  this  devilish 
fellow,  my  lord  Fred  ! — and  live  thin  till  you  see  the  last  of  him 
— for  he'll  laugh  you  into  your  second  apoplexy  with  the  danger- 
ous ease  of  a  hair-trigger.  I  could  amuse  you  with  a  turn  or  two 
in  my  late  adventures,  but  Black  and  White  are  bad  confidants, 
though  very  well  as  a  business  firm.  And,  mentioning  them,  I 
have  drawn  on  you  for  a  temporary  £500,  which  please  lump 
with  my  other  loan,  and  oblige 

"  Yours,  faithfully, 

"  YAURIE^^" 

And  here  follows  the  letter  of  Mrs.  S to  her  ancient  lover, 

the  baronet  of  Warwickshire  : — 

"  No.  10  Verandah  Row,  Kent  Road. 
"  Dear  Sir  Humphrey  :  Perhaps  you  will  scarce  remember 
J;iu'^  Jon?-^,  to  w'lOin  you  presented  the  brush  of  your  first  fox 


LATER  DAYS.  317 


TIii-3  was  thirty  years  ago.  I  was  then  at  school  in  the  little  vil- 
lage near  Tally-ho  hall.  Dear  me  !  how  well  I  remember  it ! 
On  hearing  of  your  marriage,  I  accepted  an  offer  from  my  late 

husband,  Mr.  S ,  and  our  union  was  blessed  with  one  boy,  who, 

I  must  say,  is  an  angel  of  goodness.  Out  of  his  small  income, 
my  dear  James  furnished  and  rented  this  very  genteel  house,  and 
he  tells  me  I  shall  have  it  for  life,  and  provides  me  one  servant, 
and  everything  I  could  possibly  want.  Thrice  a  week  he  comes 
out  to  spend  the  day  and  dine  with  me,  and,  in  short,  he  is  the 
pattern  of  good  sons.  As  this  dear  boy  is  going  down  to  War- 
wickshire, I  cannot  resist  the  desire  I  have  that  you  should  know 
him,  and  that  he  should  bring  me  back  an  account  of  my  lover  in 
days  gone  by.  Any  attention  to  him,  dear  Sir  Humphre}'-,  will 
very  much  oblige  one  whom  you  once  was  happy  to  oblige,  and 

still  Your  sincere  friend,  Jane  S , 

"  Formerly  Joxes." 

It  was  a  morning  astray  from  Paradise  when  S awoke 

at  Stratford.  Ringing  for  his  breakfast,  he  requested  that  the 
famous  hostess  of  the  Red  Horse  would  grace  liim  so  far,  as  to  join 
him  over  a  muffin  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and,  between  the  pauses  of 
his  toilet,  he  indited  a  note,  enclosing  his  mother's  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Sir  Humphrey. 

Enter   dame  hostess,  prim  and  respectful,  and,  as  breakfast 

proceeded,  S easily  informed  himself  of  the  geography  of 

Tally-ho  hall,  and  the  existing  branch  and  foliage  of  the  family 
tree.  Sir  Humphrey's  domestic  circle  consisted  of  a  daughter 
and  a  niece,  (his  only  son  having  gone  with  his  regiment  to  the 
Canada  wars,)  and  the  hall  lay  half  way  to  Headfort  Court — the 
Fenchers  his  lordship's  nearest  neighbors,  Mrs.  Boniface  was  in- 
clined to  think 


318  VISIT  TO  A  MOTHER'S  SWEETHEART. 


S divided   his   morning  very  deliglitfullj  between   the 

banks  of  tlie  Avon,  and  the  be-scribbled  localities  of  Shakspere's 
birth  and  residence,  and,  by  two  o'clock,  the  messenger  had  re- 
turned with  this  note  from  Sir  Humphrey  : — 

"  Dear  Sir  :  I  remember  Miss  Jones  very  well.  God  bless 
me,  I  thought  she  had  been  dead  many  years.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
be  very  happy  to  see  her  son.  Will  you  come  out  and  dine  with 
us  t — dinner  at  seven.     Your  ob't  servant 

"  Humphrey  Fencher. 

"  James  S ,  Esq." 

As  the  crack  wit  and  diner-out  of  his  time,  S was  as 

well  known  to  the  brilliant  society  of  London  as  the  face  of  the 
"  gold  stick  in  waiting"  at  St.  James's,  and,  with  his  very  com- 
mon name,  he  was  as  little  likely  to  be  recognized,  out  of  his  pe- 
culiar sphere,  as  the  noble  lord,  when  walking  in  Chcapside,  to  be 
recognized  as  the  "  stick,"  so  often  m.entioned  in  the  Court  Jour- 
nal, He  had  delayed  his  visit  to  Hcadfort  Court  for  a  day,  and 
undertaken  to  deliver  his  mother's  letter,  and  look  up  her  lang- 
syne  lover,  very  much  as  he  would  stop  in  the  Strand  to  purchase 
her  a  parcel  of  snuff — purely  from  the  filial  habit  of  always  doing 
her  bidding,  even  in  whims.  He  had  very  little  curiosity  to  see 
a  Warwickshire  Ninirod,  and,  till  his  post-chaise  stopped  at  the 
lodge-gate  of  Tally-ho  hall,  it  had  never  entered  his  head  to 
speculate  upon  the  ground  of  his  introduction  to  Sir  Humphrey, 
nor  to  anticipate  the  nature  of  his  reception.  His  name  had  been 
so  long  to  him  an  "  open  sesame,"  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  its 
potency,  and  least  of  all  when  he  pronounced  it  at  an  inferior  gate  in 
the  barriers  of  society. 

The  drcssiug-bcll  had  rang,  and  S was  shown  into  the 


LATER  DAYS.  319 


vacant  drawing-room,  where  he  buried  himself  in  the  deepest  chair 
he  could  find,  and  sat  looking  at  the  wall  with  the  composure  of  a 
barber's  customer  waiting  to  be  shaved.  There  presently  entered 
two  young  ladies,  very  showily  dressed,  who  called  him  Mr. 
"  Jones,"  in  replying  to  his  salutation,  and  immediately  fell  to 
promenading  between  the  two  old  mirrors  at  the  extremities  of  the 
room,  discoursing  upon  topics  evidently  chosen  to  exclude  the 
new-comer  from  the  conversation.  With  rather  a  feeling  that  it 
was  their  loss,  not  his,  S recomposed  himself  in  the  lea- 
thern chair,  and  resumed  the  perusal  of  the  oaken  ceiling.  The 
neglect  sat  upon  him  a  little  uncomfortably  withal. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  young  man !  What !  are  you  Miss  Jones's 
son,  eh  .?"  was  the  salutation  of  a  burly  old  gentleman,  who  now 
entered  and  shook  hands  with  the  great  incognito.  "  Here,  'Bel!. 
Fan  !  Mr.  Jones.     My  daughter  and  my  niece,  Mr.  Jones  !" 

S was  too  indignant,  for  a  moment,  to  explain  that  Miss 

Jones  had  changed  her  name  before  his  birth,  and,  on  second 
thought,  finding  that  his  real  character  was  not  suspected,  and 
that  he  represented  to  Sir  Humphrey  simply  the  obscure  son  of 
an  obscure  girl,  pretty,  thirty  years  ago,  he  fell  quietly  into  the 
role  expected  of  him,  and  walked  patiently  into  dinner  with  Miss 
Fencher,  who  accepted  his  arm  for  that  purpose,  but  forgot  to 
take  it ! 

It  was  hard  to  be  witty  as  a  Mr.  Jones,  but  the  habit  was  strong 

and  the  opportunities  were  good,  and  S ,  warming  with  his 

first  glass  of  sherry,  struck  out  some  sparks  that  would  have  passed 
for  gems  of  the  first  water,  with  choicer  listeners ;  but  wit  is 
slowly  recognized  when  not  expected,  and,  though  now  and  then 
the  young  ladies  stared,  and  now  and  then  the  old  baronet  chuck- 
led, and  said,  "  egad  !  very  well !"  there  was  evidently  no  material 


320  AN  UNRECOGNIZED  LION. 


rise  in  the  value  of  Mr.  Jones,  and  he  at  last  confined  his  social 
talents  exclusively  to  his  wine-glass  and  nut-picker,  feeling,  spite 
of  himself,  as  stupid  as  he  seemed. 

Relieved  of  the  burden  of  replying  to  their  guest,  the  young 
ladies  now  took  up  a  subject  which  evidently  lay  nearest  their 
hearts — a  series  of  dejeuners^  the  first  of  which  was  to  come  off 
the  following  morning  at  Headfort  Court.  As  if  by  way  of  caveat^ 
in  case  Mr.  Jones  should  fancy  that  he  could  be  invited  to  ac- 
company Sir  Humphrey,  Miss  Fencher  took  the  trouble  to  explain 
that  these  were,  by  no  means,  common  country  entertainments, 
but  exclusive  and  select  parties,  under  the  patronage  of  the  beau- 
tiful and  witty  Lady  Imogen  Bellasys,  now  a  guest  at  Headfort. 
Her  ladyship  had  not  only  stipulated  for  scciete  choisie^  but  had 
invited  down  a  celebrated  London  wit,  a  grent  friend  of  her  own, 
to  do  the  mottoes  and  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  masques  and  tab- 
leaux. Indeed,  Miss  Fencher  considered  herself  as  more  parti- 
cularly the  guest  and  ally  of  Lady  Imogen,  never  having  been 
permitted,  during  her  mother's  life,  to  visit  Headfort  (though  she 
did  not  see  what  the  marquis's  private  character  had  to  do  with 
his  visiting  list),  and  she  expected  to  be  called  upon  to  serve  as  a 
sort  of  maid  of  honor,  or  in  some  way  to  assist  Lady  Imogen,  who 
had  invited  her,  very  affectionately,  after  church,  on  Sunday. 
She  thought,  perhaps,  she  had  better  wake  up  Sir  Humphrey, 
while  she  thought  of  it,  (and  while  papa  was  good-natured,  as  he 
always  was  after  dinner),  and  exact  of  him  a  promise  that  the 
great  London  Mr.  What  d'ye  call  'im,  should  be  invited  to  pass  a 
week  at  Tally-ho  hall — for,  of  course,  as  mutual  allies  of  Lady 
Imogen,  Miss  Fencher  and  he  would  become  rather  well  acquainted. 

To  this  enlightenment,  of  which  we  have  given  only  a  brief  rc- 
surwer,  Mr.  Jones  listened  attentively,  as  he  was  expected  to  do 


LATER  DAYS.  32 1 


and  wtis  very  graciously  answoi-od,  wlion,  by  way  of  feeling  one  of 
the  remote  pulses  of  his  celebrity,  he  ventured  to  ask  for  some 
further  particulars  about  the  London  wit  aforementioned.  He 
learned,  someAvhat  to  his  disgust,  that  his  name  was  cither  Brown 
or  Simpson — some  ver}^  common  name,  however — but  that  he  had 
a  wonderful  talent  for  wiiting  impromptu  epigrams  on  people,  and 
singing  them  afterward  to  impromptu  music  on  the  piano,  and 
that  he  was  supposed  to  bo  a  natural  son  of  Talleyrand  or  Lord 
Byron,  Miss  Fencher  had  forgotten  which.  He  had  written 
something,  but  Miss  Fencher  had  forgotten  what.  He  was  very 
handsome — no,  very  plain — indeed,  Miss  Fencher  had  forgotten 
which — but  it  was  one  or  the  other. 

At  this  crisis  of  the  conversation  Sir  Humphrey  roused  from 
his  post-prandial  snooze,  and  begged  Mr.  Jones  to  pass  the  port, 
and  open  the  door  for  the  ladies.  By  the  time  the  gloves  were 
rescued  from  under  the  table,  the  worthy  Baronet  had  drained  a 
bumper,  and,  with  his  descending  glass,  dropped  his  eyes  to  the 
level  of  his  daughter's  face,  where  they  rested  with  paternal  ad- 
miration. Miss  Fencher  was  far  from  ill-looking,  and  she  well 
knew  that  her  father  waxed  affectionate  over  his  wine. 

"  Papa  !"  said  she,  coming  behind  him,  and  looking  down  his 
throat,  as  he  strained  his  head  backward,  leaving  his  reluctant 
double  chin  resting  on  his  cravat.  ,  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  my 
dear  papa  !" 

"  He  shall  go,  my  dear  !  he  shall  go  !  I  have  been  thinking 
of  it — ril  arrange  it,  Bel,  I'll  arrange  it !  Go  your  ways,  chick, 
and  seD'l  me  my  slippers  !"  gurgled  the  baronet,  with  his  usual 
rapid  brevity,  when  slightly  elevated. 

Miss  Fencher  turned  quite  pale. 

"  Pa — pa !"  she  exclaimed,  with  horror  in  ner  voice,  coming 
14* 


322  WRITES  HIMSELF  A  NOTE. 

round  frout.,  "  pa — pa  ! — good  gracious  !  Do  you  know  it  is  the 
most  exclusive — however,  papa  !  let  us  talk  that  over  in  the  other 
room.  What  I  wish  to  ask  is  quite  another  matter.  You  know 
that  Mr. —  Mr. — " 

"  The  gentleman  you  mean  is  probably  James  S ,"  in- 
terrupted Mr.  Jones. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  so  it  is .?"  continued  Miss  Fencher,  putting 
her  hand  upon  the  Baronet's  mouth,  who  was  about  to  speak — 

"  It  is  Mr.  James  S ;  and  what  I  wish,  papa,  is,  to  have 

Mr.  James  S invited  to  pass  a  week  with  us.     You  know, 

papa,  we  shall  be  very  intimate — James  S and  I — both  of 

us  assisting  Lady  Imogen,  you  know,  papa  !  and — and — stay  till 
I  get  some  note-paper — will  you,  dear  papa  .?" 

"  You  will  have  your  way,  chick,  you  ivill  have  your  way," 
sighed  Sir  Humphrey,  getting  his  spectacles  out  of  a  very  tight 
pocket  on  his  hip.  "  But,  bless  me,  I  can't  write  in  the  evening. 
Mr.  Jones — perhaps  Mr.  Jones  will  write  the  note  for  me — ^just 

present  my  compliments  to  Mr.  S ,  and  request  the  honor, 

and  all  that — can  you  do  it,  Mr.  Jones  .?" 

g rapidly  indited  a  polite  note   to  himself,  which  he 

handed  to  Miss  Fencher  for  her  approbation,  and,  meantime,  en- 
tered the  butler  with  the  coffee. 

"  Stuggins  !"  cried  Sir  Humphrey — "  I  wish  Mr.  Jones — " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  papa  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Fencher,  ending 
the  remainder  of  her  objurgation  in  a  whisper  in  her  father's  ear. 
But  the  Baronet  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  controlled. 

"  My  love  ! — Bel,  I  say — he  shall  go.  You  d-d-d-diddedent 
see  Miss  Jones's  letter.  He's  a  p-p-p-pattern  of  filial  duty  ! — he 
gives  his  mother  a  house,  and  all  she  wants  ! — he's  a  good  son,  I 


LATER  DAYS.  323 


tell  you  !  St-Stiiggins,  come  here  !  Pass  the  port,  Jones,  my 
good  fellow!" 

Stuggins  stepped  forward  a  pace,  and  presented  his  white  waist- 
coat, and  Miss  Fencher  flounced  out  of  the  room  in  a  passion. 

"  Stuggins  !"  said  the  old  man,  a  little  more  tranquilly,  since 
he  had  no  fear  now  of  being  interrupted,  "  I  wish  my  friend,  Mr. 
Jones,  here,  to  see  this  cock-a-hoop  business  to-morrow.  It'll  be 
a  fine  sight,  they  tell  me.  I  want  him  to  see  it,  Stuggins  !  You 
understand  me.  His  mother.  Miss  Jones,  was  a  pretty  girl,  Stug- 
gins !  And  she'll  be  very  glad  to  hear  that  her  boy  has  seen  such 
a  fine  show — eh,  Jones  ?  eh,  Stuggins  ?  Well,  you  know  what 
I  want.  The  Headfort  tenants  will  have  a  place  provided  for 
them,  of  course, — some  shrubbery,  eh  r — some  gallery — some 
place  behind  the  musicians,  where  they  are  out  of  the  way,  but 
can  see — is'nt  it  so  ?  eh  .''  eh  .^" 

"  Yes,  Sir  Humphrey — no  doubt.  Sir  Humphrey  !"  acceded 
Stuggins,  with  his  ears  still  open  to  know  how  the  details  were  to 
be  managed. 

"  Well — very  well — and  you'll  take  Jones  with  you  in  the 
dickey,  eh  ? — Thomas  will  go  on  the  box — eh  ?  Will  that  do  .? 
— and  Mr.  Jones  will  stay  with  us  to-night,  and  perhaps  you'll 
buow  him  his  room,  now,  and  talk  it  over,  eh,  Stuggins  ? — good 
night,  Mr.  Jones  ! — good  night,  Jones,  my  good  fellow  !" 

And  Sir  Humphrey,  having  done  this  act  of  grateful  reminis- 
cence for  his  old  sweetheart,  managed  to  find  his  way  into  the 
next  room  unaided. 

S had  begun,  by  this  time,  to  see  "  straw  for  his  bricks," 

in  the  course  matters  were  taking  ;  and,  instead  of  throwing  a  de- 
canter after  Sir  Humphrey,  and  knocking  down  the  butler  for 
calling  him  Mr.  Jones,  he  accepted  Stuggins's  convoy  to  the  house- 


324  OPENS  THE  CAMPAIGN. 


keeper's  room,  and,  with  bis  droll  stories  and  funny  waj's,  kept 
the  maids  and  footmen  in  convulsions  of  laughter  till  break  of  day 
Such  a  merry  time  bad  not  come  off  in  servants'  hall  for  many  a 
day,  and,  of  many  a  precious  morsel  of  the  high  life  below  stairs  of 
Tally-bo  hall,  did  he  pick  the  brains  of  the  delighted  Abigails. 

The  ladies,  busied  with  their  toilets,  had  their  breakfjists  in  their 
own  rooms,  and  Mr.  Jones  did  not  make  his  appearance  till  after 
the  Baronet  had  achieved  his  red  herring  and  seltzer.  .The  car- 
riage came  round  at  twelve,  and  the  ladies  stepped  in,  dressed  foi 
triumph,  tumbled  after  by  burly  Sir  Humphrey,  who  required  one 
side  of  the  vehicle  to  himself — Mr.  Jones  outside,  on  the  dickey 
with  Stuggins,  as  previously  arranged. 

Half  way  up  the  long  avenue  of  Headfort  Court,  Stuggins  re- 
linquished the  dickey  to  its  rightful  occupant,  Thomas,  and,  with 
Mr.  Jones,  turned  off  by  a  side-path  that  led  to  the  dairy  and 
offices — the  latter  barely  saving  his  legs,  however,  for  the  man- 
oeuvre was  performed  servant  fashion,  while  the  carriage  kept  its 
way. 

Lord  Headfort  was  a  widower,  and  his  niece.  Lady  Imogen 
Bellasys,  the  wittiest  and  loveliest  girl  in  England,  stood  upon  the 
lawn  for  the  mistress  of  the  festivities.  She  had  occasion  for  a 
petticoat  aicl-de-camp ^  and  she  knew  that  Lord  Headfort  wished 
to  propitiate  his  Warwickshire  neighbors  ;  and,  as  Miss  Fencher 
was  a  fine  grenadier-looking  girl,  she  promoted  her  to  that  office 
immediately  on  her  arrival,  decking  her  for  the  nonce  with  a  broad 
blue  riband  of  authority.  Miss  Fencher  made  the  best  use  of  her 
powers  of  self-congratulation,  and  thanked  God  privately,  besides, 
that  Sir  Humphrey  had  provided  an  eclipse  for  Mr.  Jones  ;  for, 
with  the  drawback  of  presenting  such  a  superfluous  acquaintance 
of  their  own  to  the  fastidious  eyes  of  Lady  Imogen,  she  felt  as 


LATER  DAYS.  325 


Rured  that  her  new  honors  would  never  have-arrived  to  her.  She 
had  had  a  hint,  moreover,  from  her  dressing-maid,  of  Mr.  Jones's 
comicalities  below  stairs  ;  and  the  fact  that  he  was  a  person  who 
could  be  funny  in  a  kitchen,  was  quite  enough  to  confirm  tlie 
aristocratic  instinct  by  which  she  had  at  once  pronounced  upon 
his  condition.  If  her  papa  had  been  gay  in  his  youth,  there  was 
no  reason  why  every  Miss  Jones  should  send  her  child  to  him  to 
be  made  a  gentleman  of !     "  Filial  pattern,"  indeed  ! 

The  gayeties  began.  The  French  figurante,  despatched  by 
Lord  Vaurien  from  the  opera,  made  up  her  tableaux  from  the 
beauties,  and  those  who  had  ugly  faces  but  good  figures,  tried  their 
attitudes  on  the  archery  lawn,  and  those  whose  complexions  would 
stand  the  aggravation,  tripped  to  the  dancing-tents,  and  the  falcon 
was  flown,  and  the  grey-hounds  were  coursed,  and  a  few  couple 
of  Warwickshire  lads  tried  their  backs  at  a  wrestling  fall,  and  the 
time  wore  on.  But,  to  Lady  Imogen's  shrewd  apprehension,  it 
wore  on  very  heavily.  There  was  no  wit  afloat.  Nobody  seemed 
gayer  than  he  meant  to  be.  The  bubble  was  wanting  to  their 
champagne  of  enjoyment.  Miss  Fencher's  blue  riband  went  to 
and  fro  like  a  pendulum,  perpetually  crossing  the  lawn  between 
Lady  Imogen  and  the  footman  in  waiting,  to  inquire  if  a  post- 
chaise  had  arrived  from  London. 

"  I  will  never  forgive  that  James  S ,  never !"  pettishly 

vowed  her  ladyship,  as  Miss  Fencher  came  back  for  the  fiftieth 
time  with  no  news  of  his  arrival. 

"  Better  feed  your  menagerie  at  once !"  whispered  Lord  Head- 
fort  to  his  niece,  as  he  caught  a  glance  at  her  vexed  face  in 
passing. 

The  decision  with  which  the  order  was  given  to  serve  breakfast, 
seemed  to  hurry  the  very  heat  of  the  kitchen  fireSj  for,  in  an  incredi- 


326  WIT  BELOW  STAIRS. 


bly  short  time,  the  hot  soups  and  delicate  entremets  of  Monsienr 
Duprez  were  on  the  tables,  and  breakfast  was  announced.  The 
band  played  a  march,  the  games  were  abandoned,  Miss  Fencher 
followed  close  upon  the  heel  of  her  chef,  to  secure  a  seat  in  her 
neighborhood,  and,  in  ten  minutes,  a  hundred  questions  of  prece- 
dence were  settled,  and  Sir  Humphrey,  somewhat  to  his  surprise, 
and  as  much  to  his  delight,  was  called  to  the  left  hand  of  the  Mar- 
quis.    Tally-ho  hall  was  in  the  ascendant. 

During  the  first  assault  upon  the  soups,  the  band  played  a  de- 
licious set  of  waltzes,  terminating  with  the  clatter  of  changing, 
plates.  But,  at  the  same  moment,  above  all  the  ring  of  impinging 
china,  arose  a  shout  of  laughter  from  a  party  somewhere  without 
the  pavilion,  and  so  sustained  and  hearty  was  the  peal,  that  the 
servants  stood  petrified  with  their  dishes,  and  the  guests  sat  in 
wondering  silence.  The  steward  was  instantly  despatched  to  en- 
force order,  and  Lord  Headfort  explained,  that  the  tenants  were 
feasted  on  beef  and  ale,  in  the  thicket  beyond,  though  he  could 
scarce  imagine  what  should  amuse  them  so  uncommonly. 

"  They  have  promised  to  maintain  order,  my  lord !"  said  the 
steward,  returning,  and  stooping  to  his  master's  ear,  "  but  there 
is  a  droll  gentleman  among  them,  my  lord  !" 

"  Then  I  dare  swear  it's  better  fun  than  this  !"  mumbled  his 
lordship  for  the  steward's  hearing,  as  he  looked  round  upon  the 
unamused  faces  in  his  neighborhood. 

"  Headfort,"  cried  Lady  Imogen,  presently,  from  the  other  end 

of  the  table,  "  did  you  send  to  Stratford  for  S ,  or  did  you 

not .''     Let  us  know  whether  there  is  a  chance  of  his  coming  !" 

"  Upon  my  honor.  Lady  Imogen,  my  own  chariot  has  been  at 
the  Stratford  inn,  waiting  for  him  since  morning,"  was  the  Mar- 
quis's answer.     "  Yaurien  wrote  that  he  had  booked  him  by  the 


LATER  DAYS.  33? 


mail  of  the  niglit  before  !  I'd  give  a  thousand  pounds  if  he  were 
here  !" 

Bursts  of  laughter,  breaking  through  all  efforts  to  suppress 
them,  again  rose  from  the  offending  quarter. 

"  It's  a  Mr.  Jones,  my  lord,"  said  the  steward,  speaking  be- 
tween the  Marquis  and  Sir  Humphrey;  "he's  a  friend  of  Sir 
Humphrey's  butler — and — if  you  will  excuse  me,  my  lord — Stug- 
gins  says  he  is  the  son  of  a  Miss  Jones,  formerly  an  acquaintance 
of  Sir  Humphrey's  !" 

Red  as  a  turkey-cock  grew  the  old  baronet  in  a  moment.  "  I 
beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  haying  intruded  him  here,  my 
lord  !"  said  Sir  Humphrey  ;  "  it's  a  poor  lad  that  brought  me  a 
letter  from  his  mother,  and  I  told  Stuggins — " 

But  here  Stuggins  approached  with  a  couple  of  notes  for  his 
master,  and,  begging  permission  of  the  Marquis,  Sir  Humphrey 
put  on  his  spectacles  to  read.  The  guests  at  the  table,  meantime, 
were  passing  the  wine  very  slowly,  and  conversation  more  slowly 
still,  and,  with  the  tranquillity  that  reigned  in  the  pavilion,  the 
continued  though  half-smothered  merriment  of  the  other  party 
was  provokingly  audible. 

"  Can't  we  borrow  a  little  fun  from  those  merry  people  !"  cried 
Lady  Imogen,  throwing  up  her  eyes  despairingly  as  the  Marquis 
exchanged  looks  with  her. 

"  If  we  could  persuade  Sir  Humphrey  to  introduce  his  friend, 
Jones,  to  us — " 

"  /introduce  him  !"  exclaimed  the  fuming  Baronet,  tearing  off 
his  spectacles  in  a  rage,  "  read  that  before  you  condescend  to  talk 
of  noticing  such  a  varlet !  Faith  !  I  think  he's  the  clown  from  a 
theatre,  or  the  waiter  from  a  pot-house  !" 

The  Marquis  read :- 


328  AT  HOME,  AT  LAST. 


^'  Dear  Nuncle  :  It's  hard  on  to  six  o'clock,  and  I'm  engaged 
at  seven  to  a  junketing  at  the  '  Hen  and  Chickens,'  with  Stuggina 
and  the  maids.  If  you  intend  to  make  me  acquainted  with  your 
great  lord,  now  is  the  time.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  walk  in  pre- 
sently, and  introduce  myself ;  for  I  know  how  to  make  my  own 
way,  nuncle — ask  Miss  Bel's  maid,  and  the  other  girls  you  intro- 
duced me  to,  at  Tally-ho  hall !     Be  in  a  hurry.     I'm  jast  outside. 

''  Yours,  Jones. 

"  Sir  Humphrey  Fencher." 

The  excitement  of  Sir  Humphrey,  and  the  amused  face  of  the 
Marquis  as  he  read,  had  drawn  Lady  Imogen  from  her  seat,  and 
as  he  read  aloud,  at  her  request,  the  urgent  epistle  of  Mr.  Jones, 
she  clapped  her  hands  with  delight,  and  insisted  on  having  him  in. 
Sir  Humphrey  declared  he  should  take  it  as  an  affront  if  the  thing 
was  insisted  on,  and  Miss  Fencher,  who  had  followed  to  ier 
father's  chair,  and  heard  the  reading  of  the  note,  looked  the  pic- 
ture of  surprised  indignation.  "  Insolent !  vulgar  !  abominable  !' 
v/as  all  the  compliment  she  ventured  upon,  however. 

"  Will  you  let  me  look  at  Mr.  Jones's  note  .^"  said  Lady 
Imogen. 

"  Grood  Heavens !"  she  exclaimed,  after  glancing  at  it  an  in- 
stant, *'  I  was  sure  it  must  be  he  !" 

And  out  ran  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  festivities,  and  the  next 
moment,  to  Sir  Humphrey's  amazement,  and  Miss  Fencher's 
utter  dismay,  she  returned,  dragging  in,  with  her  own  scarf  around 
his  body,  and  her  own  wreath  of  roses  around  his  head,  the  friend 
of  Stuggins — the  abominable  Jones !  Up  jumped  the  Marquis, 
and  called  him  by  name  (not  Jones),  and  seized  him  by  both 
hands,  and  up  jumped  with  delighted  acclamation  half  a  dozen 


LATER  DAYS.  329 


other  of  the  more  distinguished  guests  at  table,  and  the  merri- 
ment was  now  on  the  other  side  of  the  thicket. 

It  was  five  or  ten  minutes  before  they  were  again  seated  at  table, 

S on  Lady  Imogen's  right  hand,  but  there  were  two  vacant 

chairs,  for  Sir  Humphrey  and  his  daughter  had  taken  advantage 
of  the  confusion  to  disappear,  and  the  field  was  open,  therefore,  for 
a  full  account  of  Mr.  Jones's  adventures  above  and  below  stairs  at 
Tally-ho  hall.  A  better  subject  never  fell  into  the  hand  of  that 
inimitable  humorist,  and  gloriously  he  made  use  of  it. 

As   he   concluded,  amid   convulsions  of  laughter,  the  butler 

brought,  in  a  note  addressed  to  James  S ,  Esq.,  which  had 

been  given  him  by  Stuggins  early  in  the  day — his  own  autograph 
invitation  to  the  hospitalities  of  Tally-ho  hall ! 


LADY  RACHEL. 

*'  Beauty,  alone,  is  ost,  too  warily  kept." 

I  ONCE  had  a  long  conversation  with  a  fellow-traveller  in  the 
coup&  of  a  French  diligence.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night; 
early  in  June — not  at  all  the  scene  or  season  for  talking  long  on 
Tery  dry  topics — and,  with  a  mutual  abandon  which  must  be  ex- 
plained by  some  theory  of  the  silent  sympathies,  we  fell  to  chatting 
rather  confidentially  on  the  subject  of  love.  He  gave  me  some 
hints  as  to  a  passage  in  his  life  which  seemed  to  me,  when  he  told 
it,  a  definite  and  interesting  story ;  but,  in  recalling  it  to  mind 
afterwards,  I  was  surprised  to  find  how  little  he  really  said,  and 
how  much,  from  seeing  the  man  and  hearing  his  voice,  I  was  ena- 
bled without  effort  to  supply.  To  save  roundabout,  I'll  tell  the 
story  in  the  first  person,  as  it  was  told  to  me,  begging  the  reader 
to  take  my  place  in  the  coup^  and  listen  to  a  very  gentlemanly 
man,  of  very  loveable  voice  and  manners  ;  supplying,  also,  as  I 
did,  by  the  imagination,  much  more  than  is  told  in  the  narration. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  are  sometimes  best  loved  by 
those  whom  we  least  suspect  of  being  interested  in  us ;  and,  while 
a  sudden  laying  open  of  hearts  would  give  the  lie  to  many  a  love 
professed,  it  would,  here  and  there,  disclose  a  passion  which,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things,  would  never  have  been  betrayed.     I 


LATER  DAYS.  33^ 


was  once  a  little  surprised  witli  a  circumstance  of  tbe  Jjiud  I  al- 
lude to. 

"  I  had  become  completely  domesticated  in  a  family  living  in 
the  neighborhood  of  London — I  can  scarce  tell  you  how,  even  if 
it  were  worth  while.  A  chance  introduction,  as  a  stranger  in  the 
country,  first  made  me  acquainted  with  them,  and  we  had  gone 
on,  from  one  degree  of  friendship  to  another,  till  I  was  as  much  at 
homo  at  Lilybank  as  any  one  of  the  children.  It  was  one  of  those 
little  English  paradises,  rural  and  luxurious,  where  love,  confi- 
dence, simplicity,  and  refinement,  seem  natural  to  the  atmosphere, 
and  I  thought,  when  I  was  there,  that  I  was  probably  as  near  to 
perfect  happiness  as  I  was  likely  to  be  in  the  course  of  my  life. 
But  I  had  my  annoyance  even  there. 

"  Mr.  Fleming  (the  name  is  fictitious,  of  course)  was  a  man  of 
sufficient  fortune,  living,  without  a  profession,  on  his  means.  He 
was  avowedly  of  the  middle  class,  but  his  wife,  a  very  beautiful 
Bpecimen  of  the  young  English  mother,  was  very  highly  connect- 
ed, and  might  have  moved  in  what  society  she  pleased.  She 
chose  to  find  her  happiness  at  home,  and  leave  society  to  come  to 
her  by  its  own  natural  impulse  and  affinity — a  sensible  choice, 
which  shows  you  at  once  the  simple  and  rational  character  of  the 
woman.  Fleming  and  his  wife  were  very  fond  of  each  other,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  very  fond  of  the  companionship  of  those  who 
were  under  their  roof;  and,  between  them  and  their  three  or  four 
lovely  children,  I  could  have  been  almost  contented  to  have  been 
a  prisoner  at  Lilybank,  and  to  have  seen  nobody  but  its  charming 
inmates  for  years  together. 

"  I  had  become  acquainted  with  the  Flemings,  however,  during 
the  absence  of  one  of  the  members  of  the  family.  Without  being 
at  all  aware  of  any  new  arrival  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  I 

4 


332  SIEGE  LAID  TO  AN  AVERSION. 


went  late  to  dinner  after  a  long  and  solitary  ride  on  horseback, 
and  was  presented  to  Lady  Rachel ,  a  tall  and  reserved-look- 
ing person,  sitting  on  Fleming's  right  hand.  Seeing  no  reason  to 
abate  any  of  my  outward  show  of  happiness,  or  to  put  any  re- 
straint on  the  natural  impulse  of  my  attentions,  1  took  my  accus- 
tomed seat  by  the  sweet  mistress  of  the  house,  wrapped  up  my 
entire  heart,  as  usual,  in  every  word  and  look  that  I  sent  toward 
her,  and  played  the  schoolboy  that  I  felt  myself,  uncloudedly  frank 
and  happy.  Fleming  laughed  and  mingled  in  our  chat  occasion- 
ally, as  he  was  wont  to  do,  but  a  glance  now  and  then  at  his 
stately  right-hand  neighbor  made  me  aware  that  I  was  looked 
upon  with  some  coolness,  if  not  with  a  marked  disapproval.  I 
tried  the  usual  peace-ofiPerings  of  deference  and  marked  courtesy, 
and  lessened  somewhat  the  outward  show  of  my  happiness,  but 
Lady  Rachel  was  apparently  not  propitiated.  You  know  what  it 
is  to  have  one  link  cold  in  the  chain  of  sympathy  around  a  table. 

"  The  next  morning  I  announced  my  intention  of  returning  to 
town.  I  had  hitherto  come  and  gone  at  my  pleasure.  This  time 
the  Flemings  showed  a  determined  opposition  to  my  departure. 
They  seemed  aware  that  my  enjoyment  under  their  roof  had  been, 
for  the  first  time,  clouded  over,  and  they  were  not  willing  I  should 
leave  till  the  accustomed  sunshine  was  restored.  I  felt  that  I 
owed  them  too  much  to  resist  any  persuasion  of  theirs  against  my 
own  feelings  merely,  and  I  remained. 

"  But  I  determined  to  overcome  Lady  Rachel's  aversion — a 
little  from  pique,  I  may  as  well  confess,  but  mostly  for  the  grati- 
fication I  knew  it  would  give  to  my  sweet  friends  and  entertainers. 
The  saddle  is  my  favorite  thinking-place.  I  mounted  a  beautiful 
hunter  which  Fleming  always  put  at  my  disposal  while  I  stayed 
with  them^  and  went  off  for  a  long  gallop.     I  dismounted  at  an 


LATER    BAYS. 


333 


inn,  some  miles  off,  called  for  black-wax,  and  writing  myself  a 
letter,  despatched  it  to  Liljbank.  To  plaj  my  part  well,  you 
will  easily  conceive,  it  was  necessary  that  my  kind  friends  should 
not  be  in  the  secret. 

^'  The  short  road  to  the  heart  of  a  proud  woman,  I  well  knew, 
was  pity.  I  came  to  dinner,  that  day,  a  changed  man.  It  wag 
known  through  the  family,  of  course,  that  a  letter  sealed  with 
black  had  arrived  for  me,  during  my  ride,  and  it  gave  me  the 
apology  I  needed  for  a  sudden  alteration  of  manner.  Delicacy 
would  prevent  any  one,  except  Mrs.  Fleming,  from  alluding  to  it, 
and  she  would  reserve  the  incjuiry  till  we  were  alone.  I  had  the 
evening  before  me,  of  course. 

"Lady  Rachel,  I  had  remarked,  showed  her  superiority  by 
habitually  pitching  her  voice  a  note  or  two  below  that  of  the  per- 
sons around  her — as  if  the  repose  of  her  calm  mind  was  beyond 
the  plummet  of  their  superficial  gaiety.  I  had  also  observed, 
however,  that  if  she  succeeded  in  rebuking  now  and  then  (he  hioh 
spirits  of  her  friends,  and  lowered  the  general  diapason  till  it  har- 
monized with  her  own  voice,  she  was  more  gratified  than  by  any 
direct  compliment  or  attention.  I  ate  my  soup  in  silence,  and 
while  the  children,  and  a  chance  guest  or  two,  were  carrying  on 
some  agreeable  banter  in  a  merry  key,  I  waited  for  the  first  open- 
ing of  Lady  Rachel's  lips,  and,  when  she  spoke,  took  her  tone 
like  an  echo.  "Without  looking  at  her,  I  commenced  a  subdued 
and  pensive  description  of  my  morning's  ride,  like  a  man  uncon- 
sciously awakened  from  his  revery  by  a  sympathetic  voice,  and 
betraying,  by  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  the  chord  to  which  he 
responded.  A  newer  guest  had  taken  my  place,  next  to  Mrs. 
Fleming,  and  I  was  opposite  Lady  Rachel.  I  could  feel  her  eyes 
suddenly  fixed  on  me  as  I  spoke.     For  the  first  time,  she  address- 


334  REGRET  AT  SUCCESS. 


ed  a  remark  to  me,  in  a  pause  of  m}^  description.  I  raised  my 
eyes  to  her  with  as  much  earnestness  and  deference  as  [  could 
summon  into  them,  and,  when  I  had  hstened  to  her  and  answered 
her  observation,  kept  them  fastened  on  her  lips,  as  if  I  hoped  she 
would  speak  to  me  again — yet  without  a  smile,  and  with  an  ex- 
pression that  I  meant  should  be  that  of  sadness,  forgetful  of 
usages,  and  intent  only  on  an  eager  longing  for  sympathy.  Lady 
Rachel  showed  her  woman's  heart,  by  an  almost  immediate  change 
of  countenance  and  manner.  She  leaned  slightly  over  the  table 
toward  me,  with  her  brows  lifted  from  her  large  dark  eyes,  and 
the  conversation  between  us  became  continuous  and  exclusive. 
After  a  little  while,  my  kind  host,  finding  that  he  was  cut  off  from 
his  other  guests  by  the  fear  of  interrupting  us,  proposed  to  gwe 
me  the  head  of  the  table,  and  I  took  his  place  at  the  left  hand  of 
Lady  Rachel.  Her  dinner  was  forgotten.  She  introduced  topics 
of  conversation  such  ns  sh}  thought  harmonized  with  my  feelings, 
and,  while  1  listened^  with  my  eyes  alternately  cast  down  or  raised 
timidly  to  hers,  she  openad  her  heart  to  me  on  the  subject  of 
death,  the  loss  of  friends,  the  vanity  of  the  world,  and  the  charm, 
to  herself,  of  sadness  and  melancholy.  She  sp.emed  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  others  as  she  t;)lked.  The  tears  suffused  her 
fine  eyes,  and  her  lips  quivered,  and  I  found,  to  my  surprise,  that 
she  was  a  woman,  under  that  mask  of  haughtiness,  of  the  keenest 
sensibility  and  feeling.  When  Mrs.  Fleming  left  the  table,  Lady 
Rachel  pressed  my  hand,  and,  instead  of  following  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, went  out  by  the  low  window  upon  the  lawn.  I  had 
laid  up  some  little  food  for  reflection  as  you  may  conceive,  and  I 
sat  the  next  hour  looking  into  my  wine  glass,  wondering  at  the 
success  of  my  mancieuvre,  but  a  little  out  of  humor  with  my  own 
hypocrisy,  notwithstanding. 


LATER  DAYS. 


"  Mrs.  Fleming's  tender  kindness  to  me  when  I  joined  her  at 
the  tea-table,  made  me  again  regret  the  sacred  feelings  upon 
which  I  had  drawn  for  my  experiment.  But  there  was  no  retreat. 
I  excused  myself  hastily,  and  went  out  in  search  of  Lady  Rachel, 
meeting  her  ladyship,  as  I  expected,  slowly  pacing  the  dark  ave- 
nues of  the  garden.  The  dimness  of  the  starlight  relieved  me 
from  the  effort  of  keeping  sadness  in  my  countenance,  and  I  easily 
played  out  my  part  till  midnight,  listening  to  an  outpouring  of 
mingled  kindness  and  melancholy,  for  the  waste  of  which  I  felt 
some  need  to  be  forgiven. 

"  Another  day  of  this,  however,  was  all  that  I  could  bring  my 
mind  to  support.  Fleming  and  his  wife  had  entirely  lost  sight — 
in  sympathy  with  my  presumed  affliction — of  the  object  of  detain- 
ing me  at  Lilybank,  and  I  took  my  leave,  hating  myself  for  the 
tender  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  the  sad  and  sympathizing  fare- 
wells which  I  was  obliged  to  received  from  them.  I  did  not  dare 
to  tell  them  of  my  unworthy  ruse.  Lady  Rachel  parted  from  me 
as  kindly  as  the  rest,  and  I  had  gained  my  point  with  the  loss  of 
my  self-esteem.  With  a  prayer  that,  notwithstanding  this  deceit 
and  misuse,  I  might  find  pity  when  I  should  indeed  stand  in  need 
of  it,  I  drove  from  the  door. 

"  A  month  passed  away,  and  I  wrote,  once  more,  to  my  friends 
at  Lilybank,  that  I  would  pass  a  week  with  them.  An  occur- 
rence, in  the  course  of  that  month,  however,  had  thrown  another 
mask  over  my  face,  and  I  went  there  again  with  a  part  to  play — and, 
as  if  by  a  retributive  Providence,  it  was  now  my  need  of  sympa- 
thy that  I  was  most  forced  to  conceal.  An  affair  which  I  saw  no 
possibility  of  compromising,  had  compelled  me  to  call  out  a  man 
who  was  well  known  as  a  practised  duellist.  The  particulars 
would  not  interest  you.     In  accepting  the  challenge,  my  antagonist 


AN  APPARITION. 


asked  a  week's  delay,  to  complete  some  important  business  from 
which  he  could  not  withdraw  his  attention.  And  that  week  I 
passed  with  the  Flemings. 

"  The  gaiety  of  Lilybank  was  resumed  with  the  smile  I  brought 
back,  and  chat  and  occupation  took  their  course.  Lady  Rachel, 
though  kind  and  courteous,  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  her  re- 
serve, and,  finding  societ}^  an  effort,  I  rode  out  daily  alone,  seeing 
my  friends  only  at  dinner  and  in  the  evening.  They  took  it  to 
be  an  indulgence  of  some  remainder  of  my  former  grief,  and  left 
me  consequently  to  the  disposition  of  my  own  time. 

"  The  last  evening  before  the  duel  arrived,  and  I  bade  my 
friends  good-night  as  usual,  though  with  some  suppressed  emotion. 
My  second,  who  was  to  come  from  town  and  take  rcc  up  at  Lily- 
bank  on  his  way  to  the  ground,  had  written  to  me  that,  from  what 
he  could  gather,  my  best  way  was  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst, 
and,  looking  upon  it  as  very  probably  the  last  night  of  my  life,  I 
determined  to  pass  it  waking,  and  writing  to  my  friends  at  a  dis- 
tance.    I  sat  down  to  it,  accordingly,  without  undressing. 

'*  It  was  toward  three  in  the  morning  that  1  sealed  up  my  last 
letter.  My  bedroom  was  on  the  ground-floor,  with  a  long  window 
opening  into  the  garden  ;  and,  as  I  lifted  my  head  up  from  leaning 
over  the  seal,  I  saw  a  white  object  standing  just  before  the  case- 
ment, but  at  some  little  distance,  and  half  buried  in  the  darkness. 
My  mind  was  in  a  fit  mood  for  a  superstitious  feeling,  and  my 
blood  crept  cold  for  a  moment ;  I  passed  my  hand  across  my  eyes 
— looked  again.     The  figure  moved  slowly  away. 

"  To  direct  my  thoughts,  I  took  up  a  book  and  read.  But,  on 
looking  up,  the  figure  was  there  again,  and,  with  an  irresistible 
impulse,  I  rushed  out  to  the  garden.     The  figure  came  toward 


LATER  DAYS.  337 


me,  but,  with  its  first  movement,  I  recognised  the  stately  step  of 
Lady  Rachel. 

"  Confused  at  having  intruded  on  her  privacy — for  I  presumed 
that  she  was  abroad  for  solitude,  and  with   no   thoufijht  of  beinor 

^  CO 

disturbed — I  turned  to  retire.  She  called  to  me,  however,  and, 
sinking  upon  a  garden-seat,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  I 
stood  before  her,  for  a  moment,  in  embarrassed  silence. 

"  '  You  keep  late  hours,'  she  said,  at  last,  with  a  tremulous 
voice,  but  rising  at  the  same  time,  and,  with  her  arm  put  through 
mine,  leading  me  to  the  thickly-shaded  walk. 

"  '  To-night  I  do,'  I  replied  ;  '  letters  I  could  not  well  defer — ' 

"  ^  Listen  to  me  !'  interrupted  Lady  Rachel.  ^  I  know  your 
business  for  the  morning — ' 

"  I  involuntary  released  my  arm  and  started  back.  The  chance 
of  an  interruption  that  would  seem  dishonorable  flashed  across 
my  mind. 

''  '  Stay  !'  she  continued ;  '  I  am  the  only  one  in  the  family 
who  knows  of  it,  and  my  errand  with  you  is  not  to  hinder  this 
dreadful  meeting.  The  circumstances  are  such,  that,  with 
society  as  it  is,  you  could  not  avoid  it  with  honor.' 

"  I  pressed  her  arm  with  a  feeling  of  gratified  justification, 
which  quite  overcame,  for  the  moment,  my  curiosity  as  to  tha 
source  of  her  knowledge  of  the  afi*air. 

"  '  You  must  forgive  me,'  she  said,  '  that  I  come  to  you  like  a 
bird  of  ill  omen.  I  cannot  spare  the  precious  moments,  to  tell 
you  how  I  came  by  my  information  as  to  your  design.  I  have 
walked  the  night  away,  before  your  window,  not  daring  to  inter- 
rupt you  in  what  was,  probably,  the  performance  of  sacred  duties. 
But  I  know  your  antagonist — I  know  his  demoniac  nature,  and — 
pardon  me  ! — I  dread  the  worst !' 
15 


33r>  LOVE  AT  A  LAST  MOMENT. 


"  I  still  walked  by  her  side  in  silence.  She  resumed,  though 
strongly  agitated. 

''  ^  I  have  said  that  I  justify  you  in  an  intention  which  wiU, 
probably,  cost  you  your  life.  Yet,  but  for  a  feeling  which  I  am 
about  to  disclose  to  you,  I  should  lose  no  time,  and  spare  no  pains, 
in  preventing  this  meeting.  Under  such  circumstances,  your 
honor  would  be  less  dear  to  me  than  now,  and  I  should  be  acting 
as  one  of  my  sex  who  had  but  a  share  of  interest  in  resisting  and 
striving  to  correct  this  murderous  exaction  of  public  opinion. 
I  would  condemn  duelling  in  argument — avoid  the  duellist  in  so- 
ciety— make  any  sacrifice  with  others  to  suppress  it  in  the  ab- 
stract ;  but,  till  the  feeling  changes  in  reference  to  it,  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  sacrifice,  in  the  honor  of  the  man  I  loved,  my 
world  of  happiness  for  my  share  only.' 

"  '  And  mean  you  to  say — '  I  began,  but,  as  the  light  broke 
in  upon  my  mind,  amazement  stopped  my  utterance. 

^' '  Yes — that  I  love  you  ! — that  I  love  you  !'  murmured  Lady 
Rachel,  throwing  herself  into  my  arms,  and  fastening  her  lips  to 
mine  in  a  long  and  passionate  kiss — '  that  I  love  you,  and,  in  this 
last  hour  of  your  life,  must  breathe  to  you  what  I  never  before 
breathed  to  mortal !' 

"  She  sank  to  the  ground ;  and,  with  handfuls  of  dew,  swept 
from  the  grass  of  the  lawn,  I  bathed  her  temples,  as  she  leaned 
senseless  against  my  knee.  The  moon  had  risen  above  the  trees, 
and  poured  its  full  radiance  on  her  pale  face  and  closed  eyes. 
Her  hair  loosened,  and  fell  in  heavy  masses  over  her  shoulders 
and  bosom  ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  I  realized  Lady  KachePs  ex- 
traordinary beauty.  Her  features  were  without  a  fault,  her  skin 
was  of  marble  fairness  and  paleness,  and  her  abandonment  to 
passionate  feeling,  had  removed,  for  the  instant,  a  hateful  cloud 


LATER  DAYS.  339 


of  pride  and  superciliousness,  that,  at  all  other  times,  had  ob- 
scured her  loveliness.  With  a  new-born  emotion  in  my  heart,  I 
seized  the  first  instant  of  returning  consciousness,  and  pressed 
her,  with  a  convulsive  eagerness,  to  my  bosom. 

"  The  sound  of  wheels  aroused  me  from  this  delirious  dream, 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  grey  of  the  dawn  struggling  with  the 
moonlight.  I  tore  myself  from  her  arms,  and,  the  moment  after, 
was  whii-ling  away  to  the  appointed  place  of  meeting. 


"I  was  in  my  room,  at  Lilybank,  dressing,  at  eleven  of  that 
same  day.  My  honor  was  safe,  and  the  affair  was  over,  and  now 
my  whole  soul  was  bent  on  this  new  and  unexpected  vision  of 
love.  True — I  was  but  twenty-five,  and  Lady  Rachel,  probably, 
twenty  years  older  ;  but,  she  loved  me — she  was  high-born  and 
beautiful — and  love  is  not  so  often  brought  to  the  lip  in  this 
world,  that  we  can  cavil  at  the  cup  which  holds  it.  With  these 
thoughts  and  feelings  wrangling  tumultuously  in  my  heated  blood, 
I  took  the  following  note  from  a  servant  at  my  door. 

"  '  Lady  Rachel buries,  in  entire  oblivion,  the  last  night 

past.  Feelings  over  which  she  has  full  control,  in  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, have  found  utterance  under  the  conviction  that  they 
were  words  to  the  dying.  They  would  never  have  been  betrayed 
without  impending  death ;  and  they  will  never,  till  death  be 
near  to  one  of  us,  find  voice,  or  give  token  of  existence  again. 
Delicacy  and  honor  will  prompt  you  to  visit  Lilybank  no  more.' 

''  Lady   Rachel  kept  her  room  till   I  left,  and  I  have   nevei 
visited  Lilybank,  nor  seen  her  since." 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


CHxiPTER    I. 


In  one  of  the  years  not  long  since  passed  to  your  account  and 
mine,  by  the  recording  angel,  gentle  reader,  I  was  taking  my  fill 
of  a  delicious  American  June,  as  Ducrow  takes  his  bottle  of 
wine,  on  the  back  of  a  beloved  horse.  In  the  expressive  lan- 
guage of  the  raftsmen  on  the  streams  of  the  West,  I  was  "  follow- 
ing" the  Chemung — a  river  whose  wild  and  peculiar  loveliness 
is  destined  to  be  told  in  undying  song,  whenever  America  can 
find  leisure  to  look  up  her  poets.  Such  bathing  of  the  feet  of 
precipices — such  kissing  of  flowery  slopes — such  winding  in  and 
out  of  the  bosom  of  round  meadows — such  frowning  amid  broken 
rocks,  and  smiling  through  smooth  valleys,  you  would  never  be- 
lieve could  go  on,  in  this  out-of-doors  world,  unvisited  and  un- 
celebrated. 

Not  far  from  the  ruins  of  a  fortification,  said  to  have  been 
built  by  the  Spaniards  before  the  settlement  of  New  Enghmd  by 
the  English,  the  road  along  the  Chemung  dwindles  into  a  mere 
ledge  at  the  foot  of  a  precipice,  the  river  wearing  into  the  rock 
at  this  spot  by  a  black  and  deep   eddy.     At   the  height  of  youf 


LATER  DAYS.  341 


lip  above  the  carriage-track,  tliore  gushes  from  the  rock  a  stream 
of  the  size  and  steady  clearness  of  a  glass  rod ;  and  all  around 
it,  in  the  small  rocky  lap  which  it  has  worn  away,  there  grows  a 
bed  of  fragrant  mint,  kept,  by  the  shade  and  moisture,  of  a  per- 
petual green,  bright  as  emerald.  Here  stops  every  traveller, 
who  is  not  upon  an  errand  of  life  and  death  ;  and,  while  his 
horse  stands  up  to  his  fetlocks  in  the  river,  he  parts  the  dewy 
stems  of  the  mint,  and  drinks,  for  once  in  his  life,  like  a  fay  or  a 
poet.  It  is  one  of  those  exquisite  spots  which  paint  their  own 
picture  insensibly  in  the  memory,  even  while  you  look  on  them — 
natural  "  Daguerreotypes,"  as  it  were  ;  and  you  are  surprised, 
years  afterward,  to  find  yourself  remembering  every  leaf  and 
stone,  and  the  song  of  every  bird  that  sung  in  the  pine-trees 
overhead,  while  you,  were  watching  the  curve  of  the  spring-leap. 
As  I  said  before,  it  will  be  sung  and  celebrated,  when  America 
sits  down  weary  with  her  first  century  of  toil,  and  calls  for  her 
minstrels,  now  toiling  with  her  in  the  fields. 

Within  a  mile  of  this  spot,  to  which  I  had  been  looking  forward 
with  delight  for  some  hours,  I  overtook  a  horseman.  Before 
coming  up  with  him,  I  had  at  once  decided  he  was  an  Indian. 
His  relaxed  limbs,  swaying  to  every  motion  of  his  horse  with  the 
grace  and  ease  of  a  wreath  of  smoke,  his  neck  and  shoulders  so 
cleanly  shaped,  and  a  certain  watchful  look  about  his  ears  which 
I  cannot  define,  but  which  you  see  in  a  spirited  horse,  were  infal- 
lible marks  of  the  race  whom  we  have  driven  from  the  fair  land 
of  our  independence.  He  was  mounted  upon  a  small,  black 
horse — of  the  breed  commonly  called  Indian  ponies,  now  not 
very  common  so  near  the  Atlantic — and  rode  with  a  slack  rein, 
and  an  air,  I  thought,  rather  more  dispirited  than  indolent. 

The  kind  of  morning  I  have  described,  is,  as  every  one  must 


342  INDIAN  AND  HIS  PoNY. 


remember,  of  a  sweetness  so  coirimnnicative,  that  one  would 
think  two  bh'ds  could  scarce  meet  on  the  wing  without  exchang- 
ing a  carol ;  and  I  involuntarily  raised  my  bridle,  after  a  min- 
ute's study  of  the  traveller  before  me,  and,  in  a  brief  gallop, 
was  at  his  side.  With  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet,  however,  he 
changed  in  all  his  characteristics  to  another  man — sat  erect  in  his 
saddle,  and  assumed  the  earnest  air  of  an  American,  who  never 
rides  but  upon  some  errand ;  and,  on  his  giving  me  back  my 
"  good  morning,"  in  the  unexceptionable  accent  of  the  country, 
I  presumed  I  had  mistaken  my  man.  He  was  dark,  but,  not 
darker  than  a  Spaniard,  of  features  singulaily  handsome  and 
regular,  dressed  with  no  peculiarity  except  an  otter-skin  cap,  of  a 
silky  and  golden-colored  fur  too  expensive  and  rare  for  any  but  a 
fanciful  as  well  as  a  luxurious  purchaser.  A  slight  wave  in  the 
black  hair  which  escaped  from  it  and  fell  back  from  his  temples, 
confirmed  me  in  the  conviction  that  his  blood  was  of  European 
origin. 

We  rode  on  together  with  some  indifferent  conversation,  till  we 
arrived  at  the  spring-leap  I  have  described  ;  and  here  my  com- 
panion, throwing  his  right  leg  over  the  neck  of  his  pony,  jumped 
to  the  ground  very  actively,  and,  applying  his  lips  to  the  spring, 
drank  a  free  draught.  His  horse  seemed  to  know  the  spot,  and, 
with  the  reins  on  his  neck,  trotted  on  to  a  shallower  ledge  in 
the  river,  and  stood  with  the  water  to  his  knees,  and  his  quick  eye 
turned  on  his  master  with  an  expressive  look  of  satisfaction. 

''  You  have  been  here  before,"  I  said,  tying  my  less-disciplined 
horse  to  the  branch  of  an  overhanging  shrub. 

"  Yes — often  !"  was  his  reply,  with  a  tone  so  quick  and  rude, 
however,  that,  but  for  the  softening  quality  of  the  day,  I  should 
Imve  abandoned  there  all  thought  of  further  acquaintance. 


LATER  PAYS.  343 


I  took  a  small  valise  from  the  pommel  of  my  saddle,  and,  while 
my  fellow-traveller  sat  on  the  rock-side,  looking  moodily  into  the 
river,  I  drew  forth  a  flask  of  wine  and  a  leathern  cup,  a  cold 
pigeon  wrapped  in  a  cool  cabbage  leaf,  the  bigger  end  of  a  large 
loaf,  and  as  much  salt  as  could  be  tied  up  in  the  cup  of  a  large 
water-lily — a  set-out  of  provender  which  owed  its  dantiness  to  the 
fair  hands  of  my  hostess  of  the  night  before. 

The  stranger's  first  resemblance  to  an  Indian  had  probably 
given  a  color  to  my  thoughts  ;  for,  as  I  handed  him  a  cup  of 
wine,  I  said,  "  I  wish  the  Shawanee  Chief,  to  whose  tribe  this  val- 
ley belongs,  were  here  to  get  a  cup  of  my  wine." 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  sudden  flash  through 
his  eyes,  and,  while  he  looked  at  me,  he  seemed  to  stand  taller 
fchan,  from  my  previous  impression  of  his  height,  I  should  have 
thought  possible.  Surprised,  as  I  was,  at  the  efiect  of  my  re- 
mark, I  did  not  withdraw  the  cup,  and,  with  a  moment's  search- 
ing look  into  my  face,  he  changed  his  attitude,  begged  pardon 
rather  confusedly,  and,  draining  the  cup,  said,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  The  Shawanee  Chief  thanks  you  !" 

"  Do  you  know  the  price  of  land  in  the  valley  .^"  I  asked, 
handing  him  a  slice  of  bread,  with  the  half  pigeon  upon  it,  and 
beginning  to  think  it  was  best  to  stick  to  commonplace  subjects 
with  a  stranger. 

"  Yes !"  he  said,  his  brow  clouding  over  again.  "  It  was 
bought  from  the  Shawanee  Chief  you  speak  of,  for  a  string  of 
beads  the  acre.  The  tribe  had  their  burial-place  on  the  Susque- 
hannah,  some  twenty  miles  from  this  ;  and  they  cared  little  about 
a  strip  of  a  valley  which,  now,  I  would  rather  have  for  my  inheri- 
tance than  the  fortune  of  any  white  man  in  the  land." 

"  Throw  in  the  hmdlord's  daughter  at  the  village  below,"  said 


344  LANDLORD'S  DxVUGHTER. 


I,  "  and  I  would  take  it  before  any  half-dozen  of  the  German 
principalities.     Have  you  heard  the  news  of  her  inheritance  r" 

Another  moody  look,  and  a  very  crisp  "  Yes,"  put  a  stop  td 
all  desire  on  my  part  to  make  further  advances  in  my  companion's 
acquaintance.  Grathering  my  pigeon  bones  together,  therefore, 
and  putting  them  on  the  top  of  a  stone,  where  they  would  be 
seen  by  the  first  "  lucky  dog"  that  passed,  flinging  my  emptied 
water-lily  on  the  river,  and  strapping  up  cup  and  flask  once  more 
in  my  valise,  I  mounted,  and,  with  a  crusty  good  morning,  set  off 
at  a  hand-gallop  down  the  river. 

My  last  unsuccessful  topic  was,  at  the  time  I  write  of,  the  sub- 
ject of  conversation  all  through  the  neighborhood  of  the  village 
toward  which  I  was  travelling.  The  most  old-fashioned  and  com- 
fortable inn  on  the  Susquehannah,  or  Chemung,  was  kept  at  the 
junction  of  these  two  noble  rivers,  by  a  certain  Robert  Plymton, 
who  had  "  one  fair  daughter,  and  no  more."  He  was  a  plain 
farmer  of  Connecticut,  who  had  married  the  grand-daughter 
of  an  English  emigrant,  and  got,  with  his  wife,  a  chest  of  old 
papers,  which,  he  thought,  had  better  be  used  to  mend  a  broken 
pane,  or  wrap  up  groceries,  but  which  his  wife,  on  her  death-bed, 
told  him  ^'  might  turn  out  worth  something."  With  this  slender 
thread  of  expectation,  he  had  kept  the  little  chest  under  his  bed, 
thinking  of  it,  perhaps,  once  a  year,  and  satisfying  his  daughter's 
inquisitive  queries  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  something  about 
''  her  poor  mother's  tantrums,"  concluding,  usually,  with  some 
reminder  to  keep  the  parlor  in  order,  or  mind  her  housekeeping. 
Kuth  Plymton  had  had  some  sixteen  "  winters'  schooling,"  and 
was  known  to  be  much  ''  smarter,"  (Anglice,  cleverer,)  than  was 
quite  necessary  for  the  fulfilment  of  her  manifold  duties.  Since 
twelve  year.s  of  age,  (the  period  of  her  mother's  death,)  she  had 


LATER  DAYS. 


345 


officiated  with  more  and  more  success  as  bar-maid  and  host's  daugh- 
tar  to  the  most  frequented  inn  of  the  village,  till,  now,  at  eighteen, 
she  was  the  only  ostensible  keeper  of  the  inn,  the  old  man  usually 
being  absent  in  the  fields  with  his  men,  or  embarking  his  grain  in 
an  "  ark,"  to  take  advantage  of  the  first  freshet.  She  was  civil 
to  all  comers ;  but  her  manner  was  such  as  to  make  it  perfectly 
plain,  even  to  the  rudest  raftsman  and  hunter,  that  the  highest 
respect  they  knew  how  to  render  to  a  woman,  was  her  due.  She 
was  rather  unpopular  with  the  girls  of  the  village,  from  what  they 
called  her  pride,  and  "  keeping  to  herself ;"  but,  the  truth  was, 
that  the  cheap  editions  of  romances  which  Ruth  took  instead  of 
money,  for  the  lodging  of  the  itinerant  book-pedlars,  were  more 
agreeable  companions  to  her,  than  the  girls  of  the  village  ;  and 
the  long  summer  forenoons,  and  half  the  long  winter  nights,  were 
little  enough  for  the  busy  young  hostess,  who,  seated  on  her  bed, 
devoured  tales  of  high-life,  which  harmonized  with  some  secret 
longing  in  her  breast — she  knew  not,  and  scarce  thought  of  ask* 
ing  herself,  why. 

I  had  been  twice  at  Athens,  (by  this  classical  name  is  known 
the  village  I  speak  of,)  and  each  time  had  prolonged  my  stay  at 
Plymton's  inn  for  a  day  longer  than  my  horse  or  my  repose 
strictly  exacted.  The  scenery  at  the  junction  is  magnificent,  but 
it  was  scarce  that.  And  I  cannot  say  that  it  was  altogether  ad- 
miration of  the  host's  daughter ;  for,  though  I  breakfasted  late, 
for  the  sake  of  having  a  clean  parlor  while  I  ate  my  broiled 
chicken,  (and,  having  been  once  to  Italy,  Miss  Plymton  liked  to 
pom-  out  my  tea,  and  hear  me  talk  of  St.  Peter's  and  the  Carni- 
val,) yet,  there  was  that  marked  retenn  and  decision  in  her  man- 
ner, that  made  me  feel  quite  too  much  like  a  culprit  at  school ; 
and,  large  and  black  as  her  eyes  were,  and  light  and  airy  as  were 


it.x. 


346  THE  HEROINE'S  HOME, 


all  her  motions,  I  mixed  up,  with  my  propensity  for  bei  society,  a 
sort  of  dislike.  In  short,  I  never  felt  a  tenderness  for  a  woman 
who  could  ^'  queen  it"  so  easily,  and  I  went  heart-whole  on  my 
journey,  though  always  with  a  high  respect  for  Ruth  Plymton, 
and  a  pleasant  remembrance  of  her  conversation. 

The  story  which  I  had  heard  farther  up  the  river,  was,  briefly ^ 
that  there  had  arrived  at  Athens  an  Englishman,  who  had  found, 
in  Miss  Ruth  Plymton,  the  last  surviving  descendant  of  the 
family  of  her  mother — that  she  was  the  heiress  of  a  large  for- 
tune, if  the  proof  of  her  descent  were  complete,  and  that  the 
contents  of  the  little  chest  had  been  the  subject  of  a  week's  hard 
study  by  the  stranger,  who  had  departed,  after  a  vain  attempt  to 
persuade  old  Plymton  to  accompany  him  to  England  with  his 
daughter.  This  was  the  rumor,  the  allusion  to  which  had  been 
received  with  such  repulsive  coldness  by  my  dark  companion  at 
the  spring-leap. 

America  is  so  much  of  an  asylum  for  despairing  younger  sons, 
and  the  proud  and  starving  branches  of  great  families,  that  a  dis- 
covery of  heirs  to  property,  among  people  of  very  inferior  con- 
dition, is  by  no  means  uncommon.  It  is  a  species  of  romance  in 
real  life,  however,  which  we  never  believe  upon  hearsay,  and  I 
rode  on  to  the  village,  expecting  my  usual  reception  by  the  fair 
damsel  of  the  inn.  The  old  sign  still  hung  askew  as  I  approach- 
ed, and  the  pillars  of  the  old  wooden  "  stoop"  or  portico,  were 
as  much  off  their  perpendicular  as  before,  and,  true  to  my  augury, 
out-stepped  my  fair  acquaintance  at  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet, 
and  called  to  Reuben  the  ostler,  and  gave  me  an  unchanged  wel- 
come. The  old  man  was  down  at  the  river's  side,  and  the  key 
of  the  grated  bar  hung  at  the  hostess's  girdle,  and  with  these 


^     LATER  DAYS.  347 


signs  of  times  as  they  were,  my  belief  in  the  marvellous  tale 
vanished  into  thin  air. 

"  So  you  are  not  gone  to  England  to  take  possession  ?"  I 
said. 

Iler  serious  "  No  !"  unsoftened  by  any  other  remark,  put  a 
stop  to  the  subject  again,  and  taking  myself  to  task  for  having 
been  all  day  stumbling  on  mal-apropos  subjects,  I  asked  to  be 
shown  to  my  room,  and  spent  the  hour  or  two  before  dinner  in 
watching  the  chickens  from  the  window,  and  wondering  a  great 
deal  as  to  the  "  whereabouts"  of  my  friend  in  the  otter-skin 
cap. 

The  evening  of  that  day  was  unusually  warm,  and  I  strolled 
down  to  the  bank  of  the  Susquehannah,  to  bathe.  The  moon 
was  nearly  full  and  half  way  to  the  zenith  ;  and,  between  the  lin- 
gering sunset  and  the  clear  splendor  of  the  moonlight,  the  dusk 
of  the  "  folding  hour"  was  forgotten,  and  the  night  went  on 
almost  as  radiant  as  day.  I  swam  across  the  river,  delighting 
myself  with  the  gold  rims  of  the  ripples  before  my  breast,  and 
was  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the  shore  on  my  return,  when  I  heard 
a  woman's  voice  approaching  in  earnest  conversation.  I  shot 
forward,  and  drew  myself  in  beneath  a  large  clump  of  alders, 
and,  with  only  my  head  out  of  water,  lay  in  perfect  conceal- 
ment. 

"  You  are  not  just,  Shahatan  !"  were  the  first  words  I  distin- 
guished, in  a  voice  I  immediately  recognised  as  that  of  my  fair 
hostess.  "  You  are  not  just.  As  far  as  I  know  myself,  I  love 
you  better  than  any  one  I  ever  saw — but — " 

As  she  hesitated,  the  deep,  low  voice  of  my  companion  at  the 
spring-leap,  uttered,  in  a  suppressed  and  impatient  guttural, 
"  But  what .?"     He  stood  still,  with  his  back  to  the  moon,  and 


348  AN  INDIAN  LOVER. 


while  the  light  fell  full  on  her  face,  she  withdrew  her  arm  froa; 
his,  and  went  on. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  that  I  do  not  yet  know  myself,  or  the 
world,  sufficiently,  to  decide  that  I  shall  always  love  you.  I 
would  not  be  too  hasty  in  so  important  a  thing,  Shahatan  !  We 
have  talked  of  it  before,  and,  therefore,  I  may  say  to  you,  now, 
that  the  prejudices  of  my  father,  and  all  my  friends,  are  against 
it. 

"  My  blood,"  interrupted  the  young  man,  with  a  movement  of 
impatience. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Stay!  the  objection  is  not 
mine.  Your  Spanish  mother,  besides,  shows  more  in  your  look 
and  features  than  the  blood  of  your  father.  But  it  would  still  be 
said  I  married  an  Indian,  and,  though  I  care  little  for  what  the 
village  would  say,  yet  must  I  be  certain  that  I  shall  love  you  with 
all  my  heart  and  till  death,  before  I  set  my  face,  with  yours» 
against  the  prejudices  of  every  white  man  and  woman  in  my 
native  land  !  You  have  urged  me  for  my  secret,  and  there  it  is 
I  feel  relieved  to  have  unburthened  my  heart  of  it." 

"  That  secret  is  but  a  summer  old  !"  said  he,  half  turning  on 
his  heel,  and  looking  from  her  upon  the  moon's  path  across  the 
river. 

"  Shame  !"  she  replied  ;  "  you  know  that  long  before  this  news 
came,  I  talked  with  you  constantly  of  other  lands,  and  of  my 
irresistible  desire  to  see  the  people  of  great  cities,  and  satisfy 
myself  whether  I  was  like  them.  That  curiosity,  Shahatan,  is,  I 
fear,  even  stronger  than  my  love,  or,  at  least,  it. is  more  impatient ; 
and,  now  that  I  have  the  opportunity  fallen  to  me  like  a  star  out 
of  the  sky,  shall  I  not  go  ?     I  must      Indeed  I  must." 

The  lover  felt  that  all  had  been  said,  or  was  too  proud  to  an- 


LATER  DAYS. 


349 


swcr,  for  they  fell  into  the  path  again,  side  by  side,  in  silence, 
and,  at  a  slow  step,  were  soon  out  of  my  sight  and  hearing.  I 
emerged  from  my  compulsory  hiding-place,  wiser  than  I  went  in, 
dressed,  and  strolled  back  to  the  village,  and,  finding  the  old 
landlord  smoking  his  pipe  alone,  under  the  portico,  I  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  sat  down  to  pick  his  brains  of  the  little  information  I 
wanted  to  fill  out  the  story. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Athens  on  the  following  morning,  paying 
my  bill  duly  to  Miss  Plymton,  from  whom  I  requested  a  receipt 
in  wi'iting,  for  I  foresaw,  without  any  very  sagacious  augury  be- 
side what  the  old  man  told  me,  that  it  mio-ht  be  an  amusino;  do- 
cument  by-and-by.  You  shall  judge,  by  the  sequel  of  the  story, 
dear  reader,  whether  you  would  like  it  in  your  book  of  auto- 
graphs. 


Not  long  after  the  adventure  described  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, I  embarked  for  a  ramble  in  Europe.  Among  the  newspapers 
which  were  lying  about  in  the  cabin  of  the  packet,  was  one  which 
contained  this  paragraph,  extracted  from  a  New  Orleans  Gazette. 
The  American  reader  will  at  once  remember  it : — 

"  Extraordinary  attacJiment  to  sava.ge  life. — The  officers  at 
Fort (one  of  the  most  distant  outposts  of  human  habita- 
tion in  the  West,)  extended  their  hospitality  lately  to  one  of  the 
young  proteges  of  government,  a  young  Sbawanee  Chief,  wlio  has 
been  educated  at  public  expense  for  the  purpose  of  aiding  in  the 
civilization  of  his  tribe.  This  youth,  the  son  of  a  Sbawanee 
chief  by  a  Spanish  mother,  was  put  to  a  preparatory  school,  in  a 
small  village  on  the  Susquehannah,  and,  subsequently,  was  gra- 
duated at College,  with  the  first  honors  of  his  class.     He 

had  become  a  most  accomplished  gentleman,  was  apparently  fond 


350  ALMACK'S. 


of  society,  aud,  except  in  a  scarce  clistingiiishable  tinge  of  copper 
color  in  his  skin,  retained  no  trace  of  his  savage  origin.  Singu- 
lar to  relate,  however,  he  disappeared  suddenly  from  the  Fort, 
leaving  behind  him  the  clothes  in  which  he  had  arrived,  and 
several  articles  of  a  gentleman's  toilet ;  and,  as  the  sentry  on  duty 
was  passed  at  dawn  of  the  same  day  by  a  mounted  Indian,  in  the 
usual  savage  dress,  who  gave  the  pass-word  in  issuing  from  the 
gate,  it  is  presumed  it  was  no  other  than  the  young  Shahatan, 
and  that  he  has  joined  his  tribe,  who,  were  removed,  some  years 
since,  beyond  the  Mississippi." 

The  reader  will  agree  with  me,  that  I  possessed  the  key  to  the 
mystery. 

As  no  one  thinks  of  the  thread  that  disappears  in  an  intricate 
embroidery,  till  it  comes  out  again  on  the  surface,  I  was  too  busy 
in  weaving  my  own  less  interesting  woof  of  adventure  for  the  two 
years  following,  to  give  Shahatan  and  his  love  even  a  passing 
thought.  On  a  summer's  night,  in  18 — ,  however,  I  found  my- 
self on  a  banquette  at  an  Almack's  ball,  seated  beside  a  friend, 
who,  since  we  had  met  last  at  Almack's,  had  given  up  the  white 
rose  of  girlhood  for  the  diamonds  of  the  dame,  timidity  and 
blushes  for  self-possession  and  serene  sweetness,  dancing  for  con- 
versation, and  the  promise  of  beautiful  and  admired  seventeen 
for  the  perfection  of  more  lovely  and  adorable  twenty-two. 
She  was  there  as  chaperon  to  a  younger  sister,  and  it  was  delight- 
ful, in  that  whirl  of  giddy  motion  and  more  giddy  thought,  to  sit 
beside  a  tranquil  and  unfevered  mind,  and  talk  with  her  of  what 
was  passing,  without  either  bewilderment  or  effort. 

"  What  is  it,"  she  said,  "  that  constitutes  aristocratic  beauty  > 
— for  it  is  often  remarked  that  it  is  seen  no  where  in  such  per- 
fection as  at  Almack's ;  yet,  I  have,  for  a  half-hour  looked  ir: 


LATER  DAYS.  351 


vain  among  these  handsome  faces  for  a  regular  profile,  or  even  a 
perfect  figure.  It  is  not  symmetry,  surely,  that  gives  a  look  of 
high  breeding — nor  regularity  of  feature." 

"  If  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  a  traveller's  book,"  I  replied, 
"  we  may,  at  least,  have  the  advantage  of  a  comparison.  I  re- 
member recording,  when  travelling  in  the  East,  that  for  months 
I  had  not  seen  an  irregular  nose  or  forehead  in  a  female  face ; 
and,  almost  universally,  the  mouth  and  chin  of  the  Orientals,  are, 
as  well  as  the  upper  features,  of  the  most  classic  correctness. 
Yet  where,  in  civilized  countries,  do  women  look  lower-born,  or 
more  degraded .?" 

"  Then  it  is  not  in  tlie  featu  ^s,"  said  my  friend. 

"  No,  nor  in  the  fi-ure,  stiictly,  "  I  went  on  to  say,  "for  the 
French  and  Italian  women  {vide  the  same  book  of  mems.)  are 
generally  remarkable  for  shape  and  fine  contour  of  limb,  and  the 
French  are,  we  all  know,  (begging  your  pardon,)  much  better 
dancers,  and  more  graceful  in  their  movements,  than  all  other 
nations.  Yet  what  is  more  rare  than  a  ^  thorough-bred'  looking 
Frenchwoman  .^" 

"  We  are  coming  to  a  conclusion  very  fast,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  Perhaps  we  shall  find  the  great  secret  in  delicacy  of  skin  after 
all." 

"  Not  unless  you  will  agree  that  Broadway,  in  New  York,  is 
the  '  prato  fiorito''  of  aristocratic  beauty — for,  no  where,  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  do  you  see  such  complexions.  Yet,  my  fair 
countrywomen  stoop  too  much,  and,  are  rather  too  dressy  in  their 
tastes,  to  convey,  very  generally,  the  impression  of  high  birth." 

"  Stay !"  interrupted  my  companion,  laying  her  hand  on  my 
arm,  with  a  look  of  more  meaning  than  I  quite  understood ; 
'  before  you  commit  yourself  farther  on  that  point,  look  at  thia 


^55  MISS  TREVANIO-v-. 


tall  girl  coming  up  the  floor,  and  tell  me  what  yon  think  of  her, 
apropos  to  the  subject." 

"  Why,  that  she  is  the  very  forth-shadowing  of  noble  parent- 
age," I  replied,  "  in  step,  air,  form, — everything.  But  surely 
the  face  is  familiar  to  me." 

"  It  is  the  Miss  Trevanion  whom  you  said  you  had  never  met. 
Yet,  she  is  an  American,  and,  with  such  a  fortune  as  hers,  I  won- 
der you  should  not  have  heard  of  her  at  least.'' 

"  Miss  Trevanion  !  I  never  knew  anybody  of  the  name,  I  am 
perfectly  sure — ^yet  that  face  I  have  seen  before,  and  I  would  stake 
my  life  I  have  known  the  lady,  and  not  casually  either. 

My  eyes  were  rivetted  to  the  beautiful  woman  who  now  sailed 
past  with  a  grace  and  stateliness  that  were  the  subject  of  universal 
admiration,  and  I  eagerty  attempted  to  catch  her  eye  ;  but  on  the 
other  side  of  her  walked  one  of  the  most  agreeable  flatterers  of 
the  hour,  and  the  crowd  prevented  my  approaching  her,  even  if 
I  had  solved  the  mystery  so  far  as  to  know  in  what  terms  to  ad- 
dress her.  Yet,  it  was  marvellous  that  I  could  ever  have  seen 
such  beauty,  and  forgotten  the  when  and  where  ;  or,  that  such 
fine  and  unusually  lustrous  eyes  could  ever  have  shone  on  me, 
without  inscribing  well  on  my  memory  their  "  whereabout"  and 
history. 

"  Well !"  said  my  friend,"  are  you  making  out  your  theory, 
or,  are  you  ^  struck  home'  with  the  first  impression,  like  many 
another  dancer  here  to-night  .^" 

"  Pardon  me  !  I  shall  find  out,  presently,  who  Miss  Trevanion 
is — but,  meantime,  revenons.  I  will  tell  you  where  I  think  lies 
the  secret  of  the  aristocratic  beauty  of  England.  It  is  in  the 
lofty  maintun  of  the  head  and  bust — the  proud  carriage,  if  3'ou 
remark,  in  all  these  women — the  head  set  back,  the  chest  elevatf  •« 


LATER  DAYS.  353 


and  expanded,  and  the  v.hole  port  and  expression  that  of  pride 
and  conscious  superiority.  This,  mind  you,  though  the  result  of 
qualities  in  the  character,  is  not  the  work  of  a  day,  nor,  perhaps, 
of  a  single  generation.  The  effect  of  expanding  the  breast,  and 
preserving  the  back  straight,  and  the  posture  generally  erect,  is 
the  high  health  and  consequent  beauty  of  those  portions  of  the 
frame  ;  and,  the  physical  advantage,  handed  down  with  the  pride 
which  produced  it  from  mother  to  child,  the  race  gradually  has 
become  perfect  in  those  points,  and  the  look  of  pride  and  high- 
bearing  is  now  easy,  natural,  and  unconscious.  Glance  your  eye 
around,  and  you  will  see  that  there  is  not  a  defective  bust,  and 
hardly  a  head  ill  set  on,  in  the  room.  In  an  assembly  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world,  to  find  a  perfect  bust,  with  a  gracefully 
carried  head,  is  as  difficult  as  here  to  find  the  exception." 

"  What  a  proud  race  you  make  us  out,  to  be  sure,"  said  my 
companion  rather  dissentingly. 

"And  so  you  are,  eminently  and  emphatically  proud,"  I  re- 
plied. "  What  English  family  does  not  revolt  from  any  proposi- 
tion of  marriage  with  a  foreigner  }  For  an  English  girl  to  marry 
a  Frenchman  or  an  Italian,  a  Grerman  or  a  Russian,  Greek, 
Turk,  or  Spaniard,  is  to  forfeit  a  certain  degree  of  respectability, 
let  the  match  be  as  brilliant  as  it  may.  The  first  feeling  on 
hearing  of  it,  is  against  the  girl's  sense  of  delicacy.  It  extends 
to  everything  else.  Your  soldiers,  your  sailors,  your  tradesmen, 
your  gentlemen,  j'our  common  people,  and  your  nobles,  are  all 
(who  ever  doubted  it  you  are  mentally  asking,)  out  of  all  com- 
parison, better  than  the  same  ranks  and  professions  in  any  other 
country.  John  Bull  is  literally  surprised  if  any  one  doubts  this 
— nay,  he  does  not  believe  that  any  one  does  doubt  it.  Yet 
you   call   the  Americans  ridiculously  vain,  because  they  believe 


354  ENGLISH  PRIDZ,  AMERICAN  VANITY. 


their  institutions  better  than  yours,  that  their  ships  fight  as  well, 
their  women  are  as  fair,  and  their  men  as  gentlemanly,,  as  any  in 
the  world.  The  '  vanity'  of  the  French,  who  believe  in  them- 
selves, just  as  the  English  do,  only  in  a  less  blind  eniireness  of 
self-glorification,  is  a  common  theme  of  ridicule  in  English  news- 
papers ;  and  the  French  and  the  Americans,  for  a  twentieth  part 
of  English  intolerance  and  self-exaggeration,  are  written  down 
daily,  by  the  English,  as  the  two  vainest  nations  on  earth." 

^' Stop  !"  said  my  fair  listener,  who  was  beginning  ;;o  smile  at 
my  digression  from  female  beauty  to  national  pride,  "  let  me 
make  a  distinction  there.  As  the  English  and  French  are  quite 
indifierent  to  the  opinion  of  other  nations  on  these  points,  and 
not  at  all  shaken  in  their  self-admiration  by  foreign  incredulity, 
theirs  may  fairly  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  pride.  But  what 
shall  I  say  of  the  Americans,  who  are  in  a  perpetual  fever  at  the 
ridicule  of  English  newspapers,  and  who  receive,  I  understand, 
with  a  general  convulsion  throughout  the  States,  the  least  slur  in 
a  review,  or  the  smallest  expression  of  disparagement  in  a  tory 
newspaper.     This  is  not  pride,  but  vanity. 

"I  am  hit,  I  grant  you.  A  home  thrust  that  I  wish  I  could 
foil.  But  here  comes  Miss  Trevanion,  again,  and  I  must  make 
her  out,  or  smother  of  curiosity.     I  leave  you  a  victor." 

The  drawing  of  the  cord  which  encloses  the  dancers,  narrowed 
the  path  of  the  promenaders  so  effectually,  that  I  could  easily 
take  my  stand  in  such  a  position  that  Miss  Trevanion  could  not 
pass  without  seeing  me.  With  my  back  to  one  of  the  slight 
pillars  of  the  orchestra,  I  stood  facing  her  as  she  came  down  the 
room  ;  and,  within  a  foot  or  two  of  my  position,  yet,  with  several 
persons  between  us,  her  eye,  for  the  first  time,  rested  on  me. 
There  was  a  sudden  flush,  a  look  of  embarrassed,  but  momentary 


LATER  DAYS.  35^ 


curiositj,  and  tlie  beautiful  features  cleared  up,  and  I  saw,  with 
vexatious  mortification,  that  she  had  the  advantage  of  me,  and 
was  even  pleased  to  remember  where  we  had  met.  She  held  out 
her  hand  the  next  moment,  but  evidently  understood  my  reserve, 
for,  with  a  mischievous  compression  of  the  lips,  she  leaned  over, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  intended  only  for  my  ear,  "  Reuben  !  take 
the  gentleman's  horse  !" 

My  sensations  were  very  much  those  of  the  Irishman  who  fell 
into  a  pit  in  a  dark  night,  and,  catching  a  straggling  root  in  his 
descent,  hung  suspended  by  incredible  exertion  and  strength  of 
arm  till  morning,  when  daylight  disclosed  the  bottom,  at  just  one 
inch  below  the  points  of  his  toes.  So  easy  seemed  the  solution — 
after  it  was  discovered. 


Miss  Trevanion  (ci-devant  Plymton)  took  my  arm.  Her  com- 
panion was  engaged  to  dance.  Our  meeting  at  Almack's  was 
certainly  one  of  the  last  events  either  could  have  expected  when 
we  parted — but  Almack's  is  not  the  place  to  express  strong  emo- 
tions. We  walked  leisurely  down  the  sides  of  the  quadrilles  to 
the  tea-room,  and,  between  her  bows  and  greetings  to  her  acquain- 
tances, she  put  me  au  courant  of  her  movements  for  the  last  two 
years — Miss  Trevanion  being  the  name  she  had  inherited  with  the 
fortune  from  her  mother's  family,  and  her  mother's  high  but 
distant  connection  having  recognized  and  taken  her  by  the  hand  in 
England.  She  had  come  abroad  with  the  representative  of  her 
country,  who  had  been  at  the  trouble  to  see  her  installed  in  her 
rights,  and  had  but  lately  left  her,  on  his  return  to  America.  A 
house  in  j\Iay  Fair,  and  a  chaperon  in  the  shape  of  a  card-play- 
ing and  aristocratic  aunt,  were  the  other  principal  points  in  her 
parenthetical   narration.       Her   communicativeness,  of    course, 


356  FIRST  STEP  IN  FASHION. 


was  very  gracious,  and,  indeed,  her  whole  manner  was  softened 
and  mellowed  down,  from  the  sharpness  and  hauteur  of  Miss 
Pljmton.     Prosperity  had  improved  even  her  voice. 

As  she  bent  over  her  tea,  in  the  ante-room,  I  could  not  but 
remark  how  beautiful  she  was,  by  the  change  usually  wrought  by 
the  soft  moisture  of  the  English  air,  on  persons  from  dry  climates 
— Americans  particularly.  That  filling  out  and  rounding  of  the 
features,  and  renewing  and  freshening  of  the  skin,  becoming  and 
improving  to  all,  had,  to  her,  been  like  Juno's  bath.  Then  who 
does  not  know  the  miracles  of  dress  !  A  circlet  of  diamonds, 
whose  "  water"  was  light  itself,  followed  the  fine  bend  on  either 
side  backward  from  her  brows,  supporting,  at  the  parting  of  her 
hair,  one  large  emerald.  And,  on  what  neck  (ay — even  of  age) 
is  not  a  diamond  necklace  beautiful  ?  Miss  Trevanion  was  su* 
perb. 


The  house  in  Grosvenor-place,  at  which  I  knocked  the  next 
morning,  I  well  remembered  as  one  of  the  most  elegant  and 
sumptuous  in  London.  Lady  L had  ruined  herself  in  com- 
pleting and  furnishing  it,  and  her  parties  "  in  my  time"  were 
called,  by  the  most  apathetic  blase,  truly  delightful. 

"  I  bought  this  house   of  Lady  L ,"  said  Miss  Trevanion, 

as  we  sat  down  to  breakfast,  "  with  all  its  furniture,  pictures, 
books,  incumbrances  and  trifles,  even  to  the  horses  in  the  stables, 
and  the  coachman  in  his  wig  ;  for  I  had  too  many  things  to  learn, 
to  study  furniture  and  appointments,  and,  in  this  very  short  life, 
time  is  sadly  wasted  in  beginnings.  People  are  for  ever  getting 
ready  to  live.  What  think  you  .?  Is  not  this  true  in  every- 
thing .?" 

"  Not  in  love,  certainly." 


LATER  DAYS.  357 


Ah  !  very  true  !"  And  she  became  suddenly  thoughtful,  and, 
for  some  minutes,  sipped  her  coffee  in  silence.  I  did  not  inter- 
rupt it,  for  I  was  thinking  of  Shahatan,  and  our  thoughts,  very 
possibly,  were  on  the  same  long  journey. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  I,  looking  round  at  the  exquisitely- 
furnished  room  in  which  we  were  breakfasting,  "  you  have  bought 
these    things  at  their   intrinsic   value,  and   you   have    all  Lady 

L 's  taste,  trouble,  and  vexation  for  twenty  years,  thrown 

into   the  bargain.     It   is    a  matter  of  a  lifetime  to  complete    a 

house  like  this,  and,  just  as  it  is  all  done,  Lady  L retires, 

an  old  woman,  and  you  come  all  the  way  from  a  country  inn  on 
the  Susquehannah  to  enjoy  it.  What  a  whimsical  world  we  live 
in!" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  soliloquizing  tone,  "  I  do  enjoy 
it.  It  is  a  delightful  sensation  to  take  a  long  stride  at  once  in  the 
art  of  life — to  have  lived  for  years  believing  that  the  wants  you 
felt  could  only  be  supplied  in  fairy-land  ;  and  suddenly  to  change 
your  sphere,  and  discover  that  not  only  these  wants,  but  a  thou- 
sand others,  more  unreasonable,  and  more  imaginary,  had  been 
the  subject  of  human  ingenuity  and  talent,  till  those  who  live  in 
luxury  have  no  loants — that  science,  and  chemistry,  and  mechanics 
have  left  no  nerve  in  the  human  system,  no  recess  in  human 
sense,  unquestioned  of  its  desire;  and  that  every  desire  is  sup- 
plied !  What  mistaken  ideas  most  people  have  of  luxury  !  They 
fancy  the  senses  of  the  rich  are  over-pampered,  that  their  zest  of 
pleasure  is  always  dull  with  too  much  gratification,  that  theii 
health  is  ruined  with  excess,  and  their  tempers  spoiled  with  ease 
and  subserviency.  It  is  a  picture  drawn  by  the  poets  in  times 
when  money  could  buy  nothing  but  excess,  and  when  those  who 
were  prodigal,  could  only  be  gaudy  and  intemperate.     It  was  no- 


358  PHILOSOPHY  OF  LUXURY. 


cessary  to  practise  upon  the  reyerse,  too  ;  and,  hence  all  the 
world  is  convinced  of  the  superior  happiness  of  the  ploughman, 
the  absolute  necessity  of  early  rising  and  coarse  food  to  health, 
and  the  pride  that  must  come  with  the  flaunting  of  silk  and 
satin." 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  cool  upset  of  all  the  received  phi 
losophy  of  the  poets. 

"  You  laugh,"  she  continued,  "  but  is  it  not  true,  that,  in  Eng- 
land, at  this  moment,  luxury  is  the  science  of  keeping  up  the 
zest  of  the  senses  rather  than  of  pampering  them — that  the  chil- 
dren of  the  wealthy  are  the  healthiest  and  fairest,  and  the  sons  of 
the  aristocracy  are  the  most  athletic  and  rational,  as  well  as  the 
most  carefully  nurtured  and  expensive  of  all  classes — that  the 
most  costly  dinners  are  the  most  digestible,  the  most  expensive 
wines  the  least  injurious,  the  most  sumptuous  houses  the  best 
ventilated  and  wholesome,  and  the  most  aristocratic  habits  of  life 
the  most  conducive  to  the  preservation  of  the  constitution  and 
consequent  long  life.  There  will  be  excesses,  of  course,  in  all 
spheres,  but  is  not  this  true  .?" 

"  I  am  wondering  how  so  gay  a  life  as  yours  could  furnish  such 
very  grave  reflections." 

"  Pshaw !  I  am  the  very  person  to  make  them.  My  aunt 
(who,  by-the-way,  never  rises  till  four  in  the  afternoon)  has 
always  lived  in  this  sublimated  sphere,  and  takes  all  these  luxu- 
ries to  be  matters  of  course,  as  much  as  I  take  them  to  be 
miracles.  She  thinks  a  good  cook  as  natural  a  circumstance  as  a 
fine  tree,  and  would  be  as  much  surprised  and  shocked  at  the 
absence  of  wax  candles,  as  she  would  at  the  going  out  of  the 
stars.  She  talks  as  if  good  dentists,  good  milliners,  opera-singers, 
perfumers,  &c.,  were  the  common  supply  of  nature,  like  dew  and 


LATER  DAYS.  359 


sunshine  to  the  flowers.     My  surprise  and  delight  amuse  her,  a3 
the  child's  wonder  at  the  moon  amuses  the  nurse." 

"  Yet  you  call  thi,s  dull  unconsciousness  the  perfection  of 
civilized  life." 

"  I  think  my  aunt,  altogether,  is  not  a  bad  specimen  of  it,  cer- 
tainly.    You  have  seen  her,  I  think." 

"  Frequently." 

"  Well,  you  will  allow  that  she  is  still  a  very  handsome  woman. 
She  is  past  fifty,  and  has  every  faculty  in  perfect  preservation — 
an  erect  figure,  undiminished  delicacy  and  quickness  in  all  her 
senses  and  tastes — and  is  still  an  ornament  to  society,  and  an  at- 
tractive person  in  appearance  and  conversation.  Contrast  her 
(and  she  is  but  one  of  a  class)  with  the  women  past  fifty  in  the 
middle  and  lower  walks  of  life  in  America.  At  that  age,  with 
us,  they  are  old  women  in  the  commonest  acceptation  of  the 
term.  Their  teeth  are  gone,  or  defective  from  neglect,  their 
faces  are  wrinkled,  their  backs  bent,  their  feet  enlarged,  their 
voices  cracked,  their  senses  impaired,  their  relish  in  the  joys  of 
the  young  entirely  gone  by.  "What  makes  the  difierence  }  Costly 
care.  The  physician  has  watched  over  her  health  at  a  guinea  a 
visit.  The  dentist  has  examined  her  teeth  at  twenty  guineas  a 
year.  Expensive  annual  visits  to  the  sea-side  have  renewed  her 
skin.  The  friction  of  the  weary  hands  of  her  maid  has  kept 
down  the  swelling  of  her  feet  and  preserved  their  delicacy  of 
shape.  Close  and  open  carriages,  at  will,  have  given  her  daily 
exercise,  either  protected  from  the  damp,  or  refreshed  with  the 
fine  air  of  the  country.  A  good  cook  has  kept  her  digestion  un- 
taxed, and  good  wines  have  invigorated  without  poisoning  her  con- 
stitution." 

"  This  is  taking  very  unusual  care  of  oneself,  howevei." 


360  SELFISHNESS  OF  WEALTH. 


"  Not  at  all.  ]VIy  aunt  gives  it  no  more  tliouglit  than  the 
drawing  on  of  her  glove.  It  is  another  advantage  of  wealth,  too, 
that  your  physician  and  dentist  are  distinguished  persons  who 
meet  you  in  society,  and  call  on  you  unprofessionally,  see  when 
they  are  needed,  and  detect  the  approach  of  disease  before  you 
are  aware  of  it  yourself.  My  aunt,  though  naturally  delicate, 
has  never  been  ill.  She  was  watched  in  childhood  with  great 
cost  and  pains,  and,  with  the  habit  of  common  caution  herself, 
she  is  taken  such,  care  of,  by  her  physician  and  servants,  that 
nothing  but  some  extraordinary  fatality  could  bring  disease  near 
her." 

"  Blessed  are  the  rich,  by  your  showing." 

''  Why,  the  beatitudes  were  not  written  in  our  times.  If  long 
life,  prolonged  youth  and  beauty,  and  almost  perennial  health, 
are  blessings,  certainly,  now-a-days,  blessed  are  the  rich." 

"  But  is  there  no  drawback  to  all  this  ?  Where  people  have 
surrounded  themselves  with  such  costly  and  indispensable  luxuries, 
are  they  not  made  selfish  by  the  necessity  of  preserving  them  ? 
Would  any  exigeance  of  hospitality  for  instance,  induce  your  aunt 
to  give  up  her  bed,  and  the  comforts  of  her  own  room,  to  a 
stranger  P'^ 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !" 

"  Would  she  eat  her  dinner  cold  for  the  sake  of  listening  to  an 
appeal  to  her  charity  .^" 

"  How  can  you  fancy  such  a  thing  .^" 

"  Would  she  take  a  wet  and  dirty,  but  perishing  beggar-woman, 
into  her  chariot,  on  her  way  to  a  dinner-party,  to  save  her  from 
dying  by  the  roadside  .^" 

"  Um — why,  I  fear  she  would  be  very  near-sighted  till  she  got 
fairly  by." 


LATER  DATS.  3q1 

"  Yet  these  are  charities  that  require  no  great  eflfort  in  those 
whose  chambers  are  less  costly,  whose  stomachs  are  less  carefully 
watched,  and  whose  carriages  and  dresses  are  of  a  plainer  fash- 
ion." 

"  Yery  true ! 

"  So  far,  then,  '  blessed  are  the  poor!'  But  is  not  the  heart 
slower  in  all  its  sympathies,  among  the  rich  ?  Are  not  friends 
chosen  and  discarded,  because  their  friendship  is  convenient  or 
the  contrary  ?  Are  not  many  worthy  people  '  ineligible'  acquain- 
tances, many  near  relations  unwelcome  visitors,  because  they  are 
out  of  keeping  with  these  costly  circumstances,  or  involve  some 
sacrifice  of  personal  luxury  ?  Are  not  people,  who  would  pre- 
serve their  circle  choice  and  aristocratic,  obliged  to  inflict  cruel 
insults  on  sensitive  minds,  to  slight,  to  repulse,  to  neglect,  to  equi- 
vocate, and  play  the  unfeeling  and  ungrateful,  at  the  same  time 
that  to  their  superiors  they  must  often  sacrifice  dignity,  and  con- 
trive and  flatter,  and  deceive — all  to  preserve  the  magic  charm  of 
the  life  you  have  painted  so  attractive  and  enviable  ?" 

"  Heigho !  it's  a  bad  world,  I  believe  !"  said  Miss  Trevanion, 
betraying,  by  that  ready  sigh,  that,  even  while  drawing  the  attrac- 
tions of  high  life,  she  had  not  been  blind  to  this  more  unfavorable 
side  of  the  picture. 

"  And,  rather  more  important  query  still,  for  an  heiress,"  I 
said,  "  does  not  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  these  luxurious 
necessities,  and  the  habit  of  thinking  them  indispensable,  make 
all  lovers  in  this  class  mercenary,  and  their  admiration,  where 
there  is  wealth,  subject,  at  least,  to  scrutiny  and  suspicion  ?" 

A  quick  flush  almost  crimsoned  Miss  Trevanion's  face,  and 
she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  so  inquisitively,  as  to  leave  me  in  no 
doubt  that  I  had,  inadvertently,  touched  upon  a  delicate  subject. 
16 


362  HEROINE  IN  THE  SADDLE. 


Embarrassed  by  a  searching  look,  and  not  seeing  how  I  could  ex- 
plain that  I  meant  no  allusion,  I  said  hastily,  "  I  was  thinking  of 
swimming  across  the  Susquehannah  by  moonlight." 

"Puck  is  at  the  door,  if  you  please,  miss!"  said  the  butler, 
entering  at  the  moment. 

"  Perhaps,  while  I  am  putting  on  my  riding  hat,"  said  Miss 
Trevanion,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  may  discover  the  connection  be- 
tween your  two  last  observations.  It  certainly  is  not  very  clear 
at  present." 

I  took  up  my  hat. 

**  Stay — ^you  must  ride  with  me.  You  shall  have  the  groom's 
horse  and  we  shall  go  without  him.  I  hate  to  be  chased  through 
the  park  by  a  flying  servant — one  English  fashion,  at  least,  that 
I  think  uncomfortable.  They  manage  it  better  where  I  learned 
to  ride,  "  she  added  with  a  laugh. 

'*  Yes,  indeed !  I  do  not  know  which  they  would  first  starve 
to  death  in  the  backwoods — the  master  for  his  insolence  in  re- 
quiring the  servant  to  follow  him,  or  the  servant  for  being  such 
a  slare  as  to  obey." 

I  never  remember  to  have  seen  a  more  beautiful  animal  than 
the  high-bred  bloodmare  on  which  my  ci-devant  hostess  of  the 
Plymton  inn  rode  through  the  park  gates,  and  took  the  serpen- 
tine path  at  a  free  gallop.  I  was  as  well  mounted  myself  as  ever 
I  had  been  in  my  life,  and  delighted,  for  once,  not  to  fret  a  hun- 
dred yards  behind  ;  the  ambitious  animal  seemed  to  have  wings 
to  his  feet. 

"  Who  ever  rode  such  a  horse  as  this,"  said  my  companion, 
"  without  confessing  the  happiness  of  riches !  It  is  the  one 
luxury  of  this  new  life  that  I  should  find  it  misery  to  forego. 
Look  at  the  eagerness  of  his  ears !     See  his  fine  limbs  as  he 


.LATER  DAYS.  Q^^ 


strikes  forward  !  What  nostrils  !  What  glossy  shoulders  !  "What 
bounding  lightness  of  action  !  Beautiful  Puck  !  I  could  never 
live  without  you  !  What  a  shame  to  nature  that  there  are  no 
such  horses  in  the  wilderness  !" 

^'  I  remember  seeing  an  Indian  pony,"  said  I,  watching  her 
face  for  the  eiFect  of  my  observation,  "  which  had  as  many  fine 
qualities,  though  of  a  different  kind — at  least  when  his  master 
was  on  him." 

She  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

"  By-the-way,  too,  it  was  at  your  house  on  the  Susquehannah," 
I  added,  "you  must  remember  the  horse — a  black,  double- 
jointed 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  remember.  Shall  we  quickeL  our 
pace  ?  I  hear  some  one  overtaking  us,  and,  to  be  passed  with 
such  horses  as  ours  were  a  shame  indeed." 

We  loosed  our  bridles  and  flew  away  like  the  wind  ;  but  a 
bright  tear  was  presently  tossed  from  her  dark  eyelash,  and  fell 
glittering  on  the  dappled  shoulder  of  her  horse.  "  Her  heart  is 
Shahatan's,"  thought  I,  "  whatever  chance  there  may  be  that 
the  gay  Honorable  who  is  at  our  heels  may  dazzle  her  into  throw- 
ing away  her  hand. 

Mounted  on  a  magnificent  hunter,  whose  powerful  and  straight- 
forward leaps,  soon  told  against  the  lavish  and  high  action  of  our 

more  showy  horses,  the  Hon.  Charles (the  gentleman  who 

had  engrossed  the  attention  of  Miss  Trevanion  the  night  before 
at  Almack's)  was  soon  beside  my  companion,  and,  leaning  from 
his  saddle,  was  taking  pains  to  address  conversation  to  her  in  a 
tone  not  meant  for  my  ear.  As  the  lady  picked  out  her  path 
with  a  marked  preference  for  his  side  of  the  road,  I,  of  course, 
rode  with  a  free  rein  on  the  other,  rather  discontented,  however, 


364  HIGH-LIFE  COURTING 


I  must  own,  to  be  playing  Monsieur  de  Trop.  The  Hon.  Charles, 
I  very  well  knew,  was  enjoying  a  temporary  relief  from  the  most 
pressing  of  his  acquaintances,  by  the  prospect  'of  his  marrying  an 
heiress,'  and,  in  a  two  years'  gay  life  in  London  I  had  traversed 
his  threads  too  often  to  believe  that  he  had  a  heart  to  be  redeemed 
from  dissipation,  or  a  soul  to  appreciate  the  virtues  of  a  high- 
minded  woman.  I  found  myself,  besides,  without  wishing  it,  at- 
torney for  Shahatan  in  the  case. 

Observing  that  I  "  sulked,"  Miss  Trevanion,,  in  the  next  round, 
turned  her  horse's  head  toward  the  Serpentine  Bridge,  and  we 
entered  into  Kensington  Gardens.  The  band  was  playing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ha-ha,  and  fashionable  London  was  divided  be- 
tween the  equestrians  on  the  road,  and  the  promenaders  on  the 
greensward.  We  drew  up  in  the  thickest  of  the  crowd,  and,  pre- 
suming that,  by  Miss  Trevanion's  tactics,  I  was  to  find  some 
other  acquaintance  to  chat  with,  while  our  horses  drew  breath,  I 
spurred  to  a  little  distance,  and  sat  mum  in  my  saddle,  with  forty 
or  fifty  horsemen  between  me  and  herself.  Her  other  companion 
had  put  his  horse  as  close  by  the  side  of  Puck  as  possible  ;  but 
there  were  other  dancers  at  Almack's  who  had  an  eye  upon  the 
heiress,  and  their  tcte-a-tcte  was  interrupted  presently  by  the 
how-d  ye-do's  and  attention  of  half  a  dozen  of  the  gayest  men 
about  town.  After  looking  black  at  them  for  a  moment,  Charles 
drew  bridle,  and,  backing  out  of  the  press  rather  uncere- 
moniously, rode  to  the  side  of  a  lady  who  sat  in  her  saddle  with  a 
mounted  servant  behind  her,  separated  from  me  by  only  the  trunk 
of  a  superb  lime-tree.  I  was  fated  to  see  all  the  workings  of 
Miss  Trevanion's  destiny. 

"  You  see  what  I  endure  for  you,"  he  said,  as  a  flush  came  and 
went  upon  his  pale  face. 


LATER    DAYS.  355 


"  You  arc  false  !"  was  the  answer.  "  1  saw  you  ride  in — your 
eyes  fastened  to  liers — your  lips  open  with  watching  for  her 
words — your  horse  in  a  foam,  with  your  agitated  and  nervous  rid- 
ing. Never  call  her  a  giraffe,  or  laugh  at  her  again,  Charles ! 
She  is  handsome  enough  to  be  loved  for  herself,  and  you  love 
her." 

^'  No,  by  heaven  !" 

The  lady  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  whipped  her  stirrup, 
through  the  folds  of  her  riding-dress,  till  it  was  heard  even  above 
the  tinkling  triangle  of  the  band. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  "  and  you  are  less  clever  than  you  think, 
if  you  interpret  my  excitement  into  love.  I  am  excited,  most 
eager  in  my  chase  after  this  woman.  Yoio  9>hall  knoio  why.  But 
for  herself — good  heaven ! — v/isy,  you  have  never  heard  her 
speak  !  She  is  never  done  wondering  at  silver  forks,  never  done 
with  ecstatics  about  finaer-glasses  and  pastilles.  She  is  a  boor — 
and  you  are  silly  enough  to  put  her  beside  yourself !" 

The  lady's  frown  softened,  and  she  gave  him  her  whip  to  hold, 
while  she  re-imprisoned  a  stray  ringlet. 

"  Keep  an  eye  on  her,  while  I  am  talking  to  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  for  I  must  stick  to  her,  like  her  shadow.  She  is  full  of 
mistrust,  and,  if  I  lose  her  by  the  want  of  attention  for  a  single 
hour,  that  hour  will  cost  me  yourself,  dearest,  first  and  most 
important  of  all,  and  it  will  cost  me  England  or  my  liberty — 
for  failing  this,  I  have  not  a  chance." 

"  Go,  go,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  new  and  now  anxious  tone, 
touching  his  horse  at  the  same  time  with  the  whip  he  had  just  re- 
stored to  her,  "she  is  off!  Adieu  !" 

And,  with  half  a  dozen  attendants,  Miss  Trevanion  took  the 
road  at  a  gallop,  while  her  contented  rival  followed  at  a  pensive 


366  ^  WARNING. 


amble,  apparently  quite  content  to  waste  the  time  as  slie  best 
might  till  dinner.  The  handsome  fortune-hunter  watched  his  op- 
portunity and  regained  his  place  at  Miss  Trevanion's  side,  and, 
with  an  acquaintance,  who  was  one  of  her  self-elected  troop,  I 
kept  in  the  rear,  chatting  of  the  opera,  and  enjoying  the  move- 
ment of  a  horse,  of  as  free  and  admirable  action  as  I  had  ever 
felt  communicated  like  inspiration  through  my  blood. 

I  was  resumed  as  sole  cavalier  and  attendant  at  Hyde  Park 
gate. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Baroness .^"  I  asked,  as  we  walked 

our  horses  slowly  down  G-rosvenor  Place. 

"  Not  personally,"  she  replied  ;  "  but  I  have  heard  my  aunt 
speak  of  her,  and  I  know  she  is  a  woman  of  most  seductive  man- 
ners, though  said  to  be  one  of  very  bad  morals.      But  from  what 

Mr.   Charles tells  me,  I  fancy  high  play  is  her  only  vice. 

And,  meantime,  she  is  received  every  where. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  ], ''  that  the  Hon.  Charles is  good  author- 
ity for  the  nuuib.M-  oT  her  vices,  and,  begging  you,  as  a  parting 
request,  to  make  this  remark  the  key  to  your  next  month's  ob- 
servation, I  have  the  honor  to  return  this  fine  horse  to  you,  and 
make  my  adieux." 

"  But  you  will  come  to  dinner  !  And,  by-lhe-by,  you  have 
not  explained  to  me  what  you  meant  by  '  swimming  across  the 
Susquehannah,'  in  the  middle  of  your  breakfast,  this  morning." 

While  Miss  Trevanion  gathered  up  her  dress  to  mount  the 
steps,  I  told  her  the  story  which  I  have  already  told  the  reader, 
of  my  involuntary  discovery,  while  lying  in  that  moonlit  river, 
of  Shahatan's  unfortunate  passion  Violently  agitated  by  the  few 
words  in  which  I  conveyed  it,  she  insisted  on  my  entering  the 
house  and  waiting  while  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  talk 


LATER  DAYS. 


.m 


Co  me  on  the  subject.  But  I  had  no  fancy  for  match  making  or 
breaking.  I  reiterated  my  caution  touching  the  intimacy  of  her 
fashionable  admirer  with  the  baroness,  and  said  a  word  of  praise 
of  the  noble  savaoje  who  loved  her. 


CHAPTER   II. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  after  the  events  outlined  in  the  pre- 
vious chapter,  I  received  a  visit,  at  my  residence  on  the  Susque- 
hannah,  from  a  friend  I  had  never  before  seen  a  mile  from  St. 
James's  street — a  May-fair  man  of  fashion,  who  took  me  on  his 
way  back  from  Santa  Fe.  He  staid  a  few  days  to  brush  the  cob- 
webs from  a  jBshing-rod  and  gun  which  he  found  in  inglorious 
retirement  in  the  lumber-room  of  my  cottage,  and,  over  our  din- 
ners, embellished  with  his  trout  and  woodcock,  the  relations  of 
his  adventures  (compared,  as  everything  was,  with  London  expe- 
rience exclusively,)  were  as  delightful  to  me  as  the  tales  of  Sche- 
herezade  to  the  calif. 

"  I  have  saved  to  the  last,'^  he  said,  pushing  me  the  bottle, 
the  evening  before  his  departure,  "  a  bit  of  romance  which  I 
stumbled  over  in  the  prairie,  and,  I  dare  say,  it  will  surprise  you 
as  much  as  it  did  me,  for  I  think  you  well  remember  having  seen 
the  heroine  at  Al mack's." 

"At  Almack's.^" 

"  You  may  well  stare.  I  have  been  afraid  to  tell  you  the  stoiy, 
lest  you  might  think  I  drew  too  long  a  bow.  I  certainly  should 
never  have  been  believed  in  London." 

a  Well— the  story .?" 

"  I  told  you  of  my  leaving  St.  Louis  with  a  trading  party  for 
Sante  Fe.     Our  leader  was  a  rough  chap,  big-boned,  and  ill  put 


368  A  PRAIRIE  TALE. 

together,  but  honestly  fond  of  fight,  and  never  content  with  a 
stranger  till  he  had  settled  the  question  of  which  was  the  better 
man.  He  refused,  at  first,  to  take  nie  into  his  party,  assuring 
me  that  his  exclusive  services  and  those  of  his  company  had  been 
engaged  at  a  high  price,  by  another  gentleman.  By  dint  of 
drinking  ^  juleps,'  with  him,  however,  and  giving  him  a  thorough 
*  mill'  (for,  though  strong  as  a  rhinoceros,  he  knew  nothing  of  '  the 
science')  he  at  last  elected  me  to  the  honor  of  his  friendship, 
and  took  me  into  the  party  as  one  of  his  own  men. 

"  I  bought  a  strong  horse,  and,  on  a  bright  May  morning,  the 
party  set  forward,  bag  and  baggage,  the  leader  having  stolen  a 
march  upon  us,  however,  and  gone  a-head  with  the  person  who 
hired  his  guidance.  It  was  fine  fun  at  first,  as  I  have  told  you, 
to  gallop  away  over  the  prairie,  without  fence  or  ditch,  but  I  soon 
tired  of  the  slow  pace  and  the  monotony  of  the  scenery,  and 
began  to  wonder  why  the  deuce  our  leader  kept  himself  so  care- 
fully out  of  sight — for,  in  three  days'  travel,  I  had  seen  him  but 
once,  and  then  at  our  bivouac  fire  on  the  second  evening.  The 
men  knew  or  would  tell  nothing,  except  that  he  had  one  man  and 
a  packhorse  with  him,  and  that  the  'gentleman'  and  he  encamp- 
ed farther  on.  I  was  under  promise  to  perform  only  the  part  of 
one  of  the  hired  carriers  of  the  party,  or  I  should  soon  have 
made  a  push  to  penetrate  the  '  gentleman's'  mystery. 

"  I  think  it  was  on  the  tenth  day  of  our  travel,  that  the 
men  began  to  talk  of  falling  in  with  a  tribe  of  Indians,  whose 
hunting  grounds  we  were  close  upon,  and  at  whose  village,  upon 
the  bank  of  a  river,  they  usually  got  fish  and  buffalo-hump,  and 
other  luxuries  not  picked  up  on  the  wing.  We  encamped  about 
sunset  that  night,  as  usual,  and  after  picketing  my  horse,  I 
strolled  off"  to  a  round  mounj  not  far  from  the  fire,  and  sat  dowD 


LATER  DAYS.  359 


upon  the  top  to  see  the  moon  rise.  The  cast  was  brightening; 
and  the  evening  was  delicious. 

"  Up  came  the  moon,  looking  like  one  of  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire's gold  plates,  (excuse  the  poetry  of  the  comparison,)  and 
still  the  rosy  color  hung  on  in  the  west,  and,  turning  my  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other,  I  at  last  perceived,  over  the  southwestern 
horizon,  a  mist  slowly  coming  up,  which  indicated  the  course  of  a 
river.  It  was  just  in  our  track,  and  the  whim  struck  me  to  saddle 
my  horse  and  ride  on  in  search  of  the  Indian  village,  which,  by 
their  description,  must  be  on  its  banks. 

"  The  men  were  singing  songs  over  their  supper,  and,  with  a 
flask  of  brandy  in  my  pocket,  I  got  off  unobserved,  and  was  soon 
in  a  flourishing  gallop  over  the  wild  prairie,  without  guide  or 
compass.  It  was  a  silly  freak,  and  might  have  ended  in  an  unplea- 
t^ant  adventure.  Pass  the  bottle  and  have  no  apprehensions, 
however. 

"  For  an  hour  or  so,  I  was  very  much  elated  with  my  independ- 
ence, and  my  horse,  too,  seemed  delighted  to  get  oat  of  the  slow 
pace  of  the  caravan.  It  was  as  light  as  day,  with  the  wonderful 
clearness  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the  full  moon  and  the  coolness 
of  the  evening  air  made  exercise  very  exhilarating.  I  rode  on, 
looking  up  occasionally  to  the  mist,  which  retreated,  long  after  I 
thought  I  should  have  reached  the  river,  till  I  began  to  feel  un- 
easy at  last,  and  wondered  whether  I  had  not  embarked  in  a  very 
mad  adventure.  As  I  had  lost  sight  of  our  own  fii-es,  and  might 
miss  my  way  in  trying  to  retrace  my  steps,  I  determined  to  push 
on. 

"  My  horse  was  in  a  walk,  and  I  was  beginning  to  feel  very 
grave,  when,  suddenly,  the  beast  pricked  up  his  ears  and  gave  a 
loud  neigh.  I  rose  in  my  stirrups,  and  looked  round  in  vain  for 
16* 


370  A  DISCOVERY. 


the  secret  of  bis  improved  spirits,  till,  witli  a  second  glance  for. 
ward,  I  discovered  what  seemed  the  faint  light  reflected  upon  the 
smoke  of  a  concealed  fire.  The  horse  took  his  own  counsel,  and 
set  up  a  sharp  gallop  for  the  spot,  and,  a  few  minutes  brought  me 
in  sight  of  a  fire  half  concealed  by  a  clump  of  shrubs,  and  a  white 
object  near  it,  which,  to  my  surprise,  developed  to  a  tent.  Two 
horses  picketed  near,  and  a  man  sitting  by  the  fire  with  his  hands 
crossed  before  his  shins,  and  his  chin  on  his  knees,  completed  the 
very  agreeable  picture. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  shouted  this  chap,  springing  to  his  rifle,  as 
he  heard  my  horse's  feet  sliding  through  the  grass. 

"  I  gave  the  name  of  the  leader,  comprehending  at  once  that 
this  was  the  advanced  guard  of  our  party  ;  but,  though  the  fellow 
lowered  his  rifle,  he  gave  me  a  very  scant  welcome,  and  motioned 
me  away  from  the  tent-side  of  the  fire.  There  was  no  turning  a 
man  out  of  doors  in  the  midst  of  a  prairie  ;  so,  without  ceremony, 
I  tethered  my  horse  to  his  stake,  and  getting  out  my  dried  beef 
and  brandy,  made  a  second  supper  with  quite  as  good  an  appetite 
as  had  done  honor  to  the  first. 

"  My  brandy-flask  opened  the  lips  of  my  sulky  friend  after  a 
while,  though  he  kept  his  carcass  very  obstinately  between  me 
and  the  tent,  and  I  learned  that  the  leader,  (his  name  was  Rolfe, 
by-the-by,)  had  gone  on  to  the  Indian  village,  and,  that  the  ^gen- 
tleman' had  dropped  the  curtain  of  his  tent  at  my  approach,  and 
was,  probably,  asleep.  My  word  of  honor  to  Rolfe,  that  I  would 
'  cut  no  capers,'  (his  own  phrase  in  administering  the  obligation,) 
kept  down  my  excited  curiosity,  and  prevented  me,  of  course, 
from  even  pumping  the  man  beside  me,  though  I  might  have  dono 
BO  with  a  little  more  of  the  contents  of  my  flask. 

"  The  moon  was  pretty  well  ovor  boad  Vi'lion  Rolfe  returned, 


LATER  DAYS.  37 j 


and  found  me  fast  asleep  by  the  fire.  I  awoke  with  the  tramp- 
ling and  neighing  of  horses,  and,  springing  to  my  feet,  I  saw  an 
Indian  dismounting,  and  Rolfe  and  the  fire-tender  conversing 
together  while  picketing  their  horses.  The  Indian  had  a  tall 
feather  in  his  cap,  and  trinkets  on  his  breast,  which  glittered  in 
the  moonlight ;  but  he  was  dressed  otherwise  like  a  white  man, 
with  a  hunting-frock  and  very  loose  largo  trowsers.  By  thy 
way,  he  had  moccasins,  too,  and  a  wampum  belt  ;  but  he  was  a 
clean-limbed,  lithe,  agile-looking  devil,  with  an  eye  like  a  coal  of 
fire. 

"  '  You've  broke  your  contract,  mister  !"  said  Rolfe,  coming 
up  to  me  ;  '  but  stand  by  and  say  nothing.' 

'''■  He  then  went  to  the  tent,  gave  an  '  ehem !'  by  way  of  a 
knock,  and  entered. 

"  It's  a  fine  night,"  said  the  Indian,  coming  up  to  the  fire  and 
touching  a  brand  with  the  toe  of  his  moccasin. 

"  I  was  so  surprised  at  the  honest  English  in  which  he  delivered 
himself,  that  1  stared  at  him  without  answer. 

"  '  Do  you  speak  English  .^'  he  said. 

"  '  Tolerably  well,'  said  I,  ^  but  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being 
so  surprised  at  your  own  accent  that  I  forgot  to  reply  to  you. 
And,  now  I  look  at  you  more  closely,  I  see  that  you  are  rather 
Spanish  than  Indian.' 

" '  My  mother's  blood,"  he  answered  rather  coldly,  '  but  my 
father  was  an  Indian,  and  I  am  a  chief.' 

"  '  Vrell,  llolfe,'  he  continued,  turning  the  next  instant  to  the 
trader,  who  caine  towards  us,  '  who  is  this  that  would  see  Shaha- 
tan  P 

"  The  trader  pointed  to  the  tent.  The  curtain  was  put  aside, 
and  a  smart-looking  youth,  in  a  blue  cap  and  cloak,  stepped  out 


372  AN  INDIAN  HINT. 


and  took  his  way  off  into  the  prairie,  motioning  to  the  chief  to 
follow. 

"  '  Go  along  !  he  won't  eat  you  !'  said  Rolfe,  as  the  Indian  hesi- 
tated, from  pride  or  distrust,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  tomahawk. 

"  I  wish  I  could- tell  you  what  was  said  at  that  interview,  for 
my  curiosity  was  never  so  strongly  excited.  Rolfe  seemed  bent 
on  preventing  both  interference  and  observation,  however,  and,*in 
his  loud  and  coarse  voice,  commenced  singing  and  making  prepa- 
rations for  his  supper  ;  and,  persuading  me  into  the  drinking  part 
of  it,  I  listened  to  his  stories  and  toasted  my  shins  till  1  was  too 
sleepy  to  feel  either  romance  or  curiosity  ;  and,  leaving  the  moon 
to  waste  its  silver  on  the  wilderness,  and  the  mysterious  colloquists 
to  ramble  and  fioish  their  conference  as  they  liked,  I  rolled  over 
on  my  buffalo-skin  and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

"  The  next  morning  I  rubbed  my  eyes  to  discover  whether  all 
I  have  been  telling  you  was  not  a  dream,  for  tent  and  demoiselle 
had  evaporated,  and  I  lay  with  my  feet  to  the  smouldering  fire, 
&nd  all  the  trading  party  preparing  for  breakfast  around  me. 
Alarmed  at  my  absence,  they  had  made  a  start  before  sunrise  to 
overtake  Rolfe,  and  had  come  up  while  I  slept.  The  leader, 
after  a  while,  gave  me  a  slip  of  paper  from  the  chief,  saying  that 
ho  should  be  happy  to  give  me  a  specimen  of  Indian  hospitality 
at  the  Shawanee  village,  on  my  return  from  Santa  Fe — a  neat 
hint  that  I  was  not  to  intrude  upon  him  at  present." 

"  Which  yoQ  took  ?" 

"  Rolfe  seemed  to  have  had  a  hint  which  was  probably  in  some 
more  decided  shape,  since  he  took  it,  for  us  all.  The  men 
grumbled  at  passing  the  village  without  calling  for  fish,  but  the 
leader  was  inexorable,  and  we   left  it  to   the  right,   and  '  mada 


LATER  DAYS.  373 


tracks,'  as  the  hunters  say,  for  our  destination.  Two  days  from 
there  we  saw  a  buffalo " 

"  Which  you  demolished.  You  told  me  that  story  last  night. 
Come,  get  back  to  the  Shawauees  !  You  called  on  the  village  at 
your  return  .^" 

"  Yes,  and  an  odd  place  it  was.  We  came  upon  it  from  the 
west,  Rolfe  having  made  a  bend  to  the  westward  on  his  return 
back.  We  had  been  travelling  all  day  over  a  long  plain,  v/ooded 
in  clumps,  looking  very  much  like  an  immense  park,  and  I  began 
to  think  that  the  trader  intended  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  visit — 
for  he  said  we  should  sup  with  the  Shawanees  that  night,  and  I 
did  not  in  the  least  recognize  the  outline  of  the  country.  We 
struck  the  bed  of  a  small  and  very  beautiful  river,  presently 
however,  and,  after  following  it  through  a  wood  for  a  while,  came 
to  a  sharp  brow  where  the  river  suddenly  descended  to  a  plain  at 
least  two  hundred  feet  lower  than  the  table  land  on  which  we  had 
been  travelling.  The  country  below  looked  as  if  it  might  have 
been  the  bed  of  an  immense  lake,  and' we  stood  on  the  shore  of  it. 

"  I  sat  on  my  horse,  geologizing  in  fancy  about  this  singular 
formation  of  laud,  till,  hearing  a  shout,  I  found  the  party  had 
gone  on,  and  Rolfe  was  hallooing  to  me  to  follow.  As  I  was  try- 
ing to  get  a  glimpse  of  him  through  the  trees,  up  rode  my  old 
acquaintance  Shahatan,  with  his  rifle  across  his  thigh,  and  gave 
me  a  very  cordial  welcome.  He  then  rode  on  to  show  me  the 
the  way.  We  left  the  river,  which  was  foaming  among  some  fine 
rapids,  and,  by  a  zig-zag  side-path  through  the  woods,  descended 
about  half-way  to  the  plain,  where  we  rounded  a  huge  rock,  and 
stood  suddenly  in  the  village  of  the  Shawanees.  You  cannot 
fancy  anything  so  picturesque.  On  the  left,  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  extended  a  natural  steppe^  or  terrace,  a  hundred  yards  wide, 


374  FASHION  IN  A  WIGWAM. 


and  rounding  in  a  crescent  to  the  south.  The  river  came  in 
toward  it,  on  the  right,  in  a  superb  cascade,  visible  from  the 
whole  of  the  platform,  and,  against  the  rocky  wall  at  the  back, 
and  around  on  the  edge  overlooking  the  plain,  were  built  the  wig- 
wams and  log-huts  of  the  tribe ;  in  front  of  which  lounged  men, 
women,  and  children,  enjoying  the  cool  of  the  summer  evening. 
Not  far  from  the  base  of  the  hill,  the  river  reappeared  from  the 
woods,  and  I  distinguished  some  fields  planted  with  corn  along  its 
banks,  and  horses  and  cattle  grazing.  What  with  the  pleasant 
sound  of  the  falls,  and  the  beauty  of  the  scene  altogether,  it  was 
to  me  more  like  the  j)nmitive  Arcadia  we  dream  about,  than  any- 
thing I  ever  saw. 

"  Well,  Rolfe  and  his  party  reached  the  village  presently,  for 
the  chief  had  brought  me  by  a  shorter  cut,  and,  in  a  moment,  the 
whole  tribe  was  about  us,  and  the  trader  found  himself  apparently 
among  old  acquaintances.  The  chief  sent  a  lad  with  my  horse 
down  into  the  plain  to  be  picketed  where  the  grass  was  better, 
and  took  me  into  a  small  hut,  where  I  treated  myself  to  a  little 
more  of  a  toilet  than  I  had  been  accustomed  to,  of  late,  in  compli- 
ment to  the  unusual  prospect  of  supping  with  a  lady.  The  hut 
was  lined  with  bark,  and  seemed  used  by  the  chief  for  the  same 
purpose,  as  there  were  sundry  articles  of  dress  and  other  civilized 
refinements  hanging  to  the  bracing-poles,  and  covering  a  rude 
table  in  the  corner. 

"  Fancy  my  surprise,  on  coming  out,  to  meet  the  chief  strolling 
up  and  down  his  prairie  shelf  with,  not  one  lady,  but  half  a  dozen 
— a  respectable-looking  gentleman  in  black,  (I  speak  of  his  coat,) 
and  a  bevy  of  nice-looking  girls,  with  our  Almack's  acquaintance 
in  the  centre — the  whole  party,  except  the  chief,  dressed  in  a  way 
that  would  pass  muster   in   any  village  in    England.     Shahatan 


LATER  DAYS.  375 


wore  the  Indian's  blanket,  modified  with  a  large  mantle  of  fine 
blue  cloth,  and  crossed  over  his  handsome  bare  chest,  something 
after  the  style  of  a  Hieland  tartan.  I  really  never  saw  a  better 
made,  or  more  magnificent-looking  fellow,  though  I  am  not  sure 
that  his  easy  and  picturesque  dress  would  not  have  improved  a 
plainer  man. 

"  1  remembered  directly  that  Rolfe  had  said  something  to  me 
about  missionaries  living  among  the  Shawanees,  and  I  was  not 
surprised  to  hear  that  the  gentleman  in  a  black  coat  was  a 
reverend,  and  the  ladies  the  sisterhood  of  the  mission.  Miss 
Trevanion  seemed  rather  in  haste  to  inform  me  of  the  presence 
of  '  the  cloth,'  and,  in  the  next  breath,  claimed  my  congratula- 
tions on  her  marriage !  She  had  been  a  chieftainess  for  two 
months. 

*'  We  strolled  up  and  down  the  grassy  terrace,  dividing  our  at- 
tention between  the  eflfects  of  the  sunset  on  the  prairie  below 
and  the  preparations  for  our  supper,  which  was  going  on  by  the 
light  of  pine-knots  stuck  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  in  the  rear. 
A  dozen  Indian  girls  were  crossing  and  recrossing  before  the  fires, 
and,  with  the  bright  glare  upon  the  precipice,  and  the  moving 
figures,  wigwams,  &c.,  it  was  like  a  picture  of  Salvator  Rosa's. 
The  fair  chieftainess,  as  she  glided  across  occasionally  to  look  after 
the  people,  with  a  step  as  light  as  her  stately  figure  would  allow, 
was  not  the  least  beautiful  feature  of  the  scene.  We  lost  a  fine 
creature  when  we  let  her  slip  through  our  fingers,  my  dear 
feUow  !" 

"  Thereby  hangs  a  tale,  I  have  little  doubt,  and  I  can  give  you 
some  data  for  a  good  guess  at  it — but  as  the  *  nigger  gong'  has 


♦ 

376  A  CHIEFS  HOME. 


t"  Tell  us  what  dey  had  for  supper — 

Black-eyed  pease,  or  bread  and  butter  ?" 

"  We  had  everything  the  wilderness  could  produce — appetites 
included.  Lying  in  the  track  of  the  trading  parties,  Shahatan, 
of  course,  made  what  additions  he  liked,  to  the  Indian  mode  of 
living,  and,  except  that  our  table  was  a  huge  buffalo  skin  stretch- 
ed upon  stakes,  the  supper  might  have  been  a  traveller's  meal 
among  Turks  or  Arabs,  for  all  that  was  peculiar  about  it,  I 
should  except,  perhaps,  that  no  Turk  or  Arab  ever  saw  so  pretty 
a  creature  as  the  chief's  sister,  who  was  my  neighbor  at  the  feast." 

"  So — another  romance  !" 

*'  No,  indeed  !  For  thougb  her  eyes  were  eloquent  enough  to 
persuade  one  to  forswear  the  world  and  turn  Sbawauee,  she  had 
no  tono;ue  for  a  strano;er.  What  little  Eno-lish  she  had  learned 
of  the  missionaries,  she  was  too  sly  to  use,  and  our  flirtation  was 
a  very  unsatisfactory  pantomime.  I  parted  from  her  at  night  in 
the  bior  wigwam,  without  havino;  been  out  of  ear-shot  of  the 
chief  for  a  single  moment ;  and,  as  Rolfe  was  inexorable  about 
getting  off  with  the  day-break  the  next  morning,  it  was  the  last  I 
saw  of  the  little  fawn.  But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  forty 
minds  between  that  and  St.  Louis,  to  turn  about  and  have  another 
look  at  her. 

"  The  big  wigwam,  I  should  tell  you,  was  as  large  as  a  com- 
mon breakfast-room  in  London.  It  was  built  of  bark  very  inge- 
niously sewed  together,  and  lined  throughout  with  the  most  costly 
furs,  even  the  floor  covered  with  highly-dressed  bear-skins. 
After  finishing  our  supper  in  the  open  air,  the  large  curtain  at 
the  door,  which  was  made  of  the  most  superb  gold-colored  otters, 
was  thrown  up  to  let  in  the  blaze  of  the  pine  torches  stuck  in  the 
rock  opposite,  and,  as  the  evening  was  getting  cool,  we  followed 


LATER  DAYS.  377 


the  chieftainess  to  her  savage  drawing-room,  and  took  coffee  and 
chatted  until  a  late  hour,  lounging  on  the  rude,  fur-covered 
couches.  I  had  not  much  chance  to  talk  with  our  old  friend, 
but  I  gathered  from  what  little  she  said,  that  she  had  been  dis- 
gusted with  the  heartlessness  of  London,  and  preferred  the 
wilderness,  with  one  of  nature's  nobility,  to  all  the  splendors  of 
matrimony  in  high  life.  She  said,  however,  that  she  would  try  to 
induce  Shahatan  to  travel  abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  and,  after 
that,  she  thought  their  time  would  be  agreeably  spent  in  such  a 
mixture  of  savage  and  civilized  life  as  her  fortune  and  his  control 
over  the  tribe  would  enable  them  to  manage." 

When  my  friend  had  concluded  his  story,  I  threw  what  little 
light  I  possessed  upon  the  undeveloped  springs  of  Miss  Trevanion's 
extraordinary  movements,  and  we  ended  our  philosophizings  on 
the  subject,  by  promising  ourselves  a  trip  to  the  Shawanees  some 
day  together.  Now  that  we  have  had  the  later  news  that  Shaha- 
tan and  his  wife  were  travelling,  by  the  last  accounts,  in  the 
East,  however,  we  have  limited  our  programme  to  meeting  them 
in  England,  and  have  no  little  curiosity  to  see  whether  the  young 
eayage  will  decide  like  his  wife  in  the  question  of  "  Wigwam 
versv4  Almack's.'^ 


University  of 
Connecticut 

Libraries 


39153028201582 


■^'^vilrLjiMiiHiilli 


ifis]^ 


iiiilii 


Hit' 


ii 


-ilMliPlllillliiii 
lli 


'I  liijiii. 


